"What are ye goin' ter do?" Tom asked with a frown.
"Bleed her, of course. It's the only thing to do----"
The Boy suddenly pushed himself between the doctor and the bed and
looked up into his stern face with a resolute stare:
"You shan't do it. I don't know nothin' much about doctorin' but I got
sense enough to know that'll kill her--and you shan't do it!"
The doctor looked angrily at the father.
"I say so, too," Tom replied. "She's too weak for that."
With a snort of anger, the old man threw the lancet into his saddlebags,
snapped them together and strode through the cabin door.
The Boy followed him wistfully to the stable, and when he seized the
bridle to put on the horse, caught his hand and looked up:
"Please don't go," he begged. "I'm mighty sorry I made you mad. I didn't
go to do it. You see----" his voice faltered--"I love her so I just
couldn't let you cut her arm open and see her bleed. I didn't mean to
hurt your feelings. Won't you stay and help us? Can't ye do somethin'
else for her? I'll pay ye. I'll go work for ye a whole year or five
years if ye want me--if you'll just save her--just save her, that's
all--don't go--please don't!"
Something in the child's anguish found the rough old man's heart. His
eyes grew misty for a moment, he slipped one arm about the Boy's
shoulders and drew him close.
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