"It can't harm me, my son, unless God wills it. When he calls I shall be
ready."
All the way home he clung to her hand and sometimes when they paused
stroked it tenderly with both his.
"What's it like?" he asked at last. "Can't you take bitters for it in
time to stop it? How do you know when it's come?"
"You begin to feel drowsy, a whitish coating is on the tongue, a burning
in the stomach, the feet and legs get cold. You're restless and the
pulse grows weak."
"How long does it last?"
"Sometimes it kills in three days, sometimes two weeks. Sometimes it's
chronic and hangs on for years and then kills."
Every morning through the long black summer of the scourge he asked her
with wistful tenderness if she were well. Her cheerful answers at last
brought peace to his anxious heart and he gradually ceased to fear. She
was too sweet and loving and God too good that she should die. Besides,
both his father and mother had given him a lesson in quiet, simple
heroism that steadied his nerves.
He looked at the rugged figure of his father with a new sense of
admiration. He was no more afraid of Death than of Life. He was giving
himself without a question in an utterly unselfish devotion to the
stricken community. There were no doctors within thirty miles, and if
one came he could but shake his head and advise simple remedies that did
no good.
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