I won't--I tell you I won't. I'll fight this
thing--and you've got to help me--won't you?"
"I'm ready for God's will, my Boy," she said simply.
"I don't want you to say that!" he pleaded. "I want you to fight and
never give up. Why you can't die, Ma--you just can't. You're my only
teacher now. There ain't no schools here. How can I learn books without
you to help me? Say you'll get well. Please say it for me--please, just
say it----"
He paused and couldn't go on for a moment, "Say you'll try then--just
for me--please say it!"
"I'll try, Boy," she said tenderly at last.
He flew to the creek bank and in two hours came home with an armful of
fresh sarsaparilla roots. He cut and pounded them into a soft pulp and
made a poultice. Sarah helped him put it in place. He made his mother
drink the bitters every hour. He got stones ready and had them hot to
wrap in cloths and put to her feet the moment they felt cold. He
wouldn't take her word for it either. He kept slipping his little hands
under the cover to feel.
The mother smiled at his tender, eager touch.
"Now, Boy," she said softly. "I'm feeling comfortable, will you do
something for me?"
"What is it?" he cried eagerly.
She smiled again:
"Read to me. I want to hear your voice."
"All right--what?"
"The Bible, of course.
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