Benefits Forgot | Page 8

"Yes, father," answered Jason dutifully.
Brother Wilkins looked at the boy, as if he were beholding him from a
new angle.
"You don't look as much like your dear mother as you did in your
childhood, my boy. Sometimes--I wonder--Jason, do you think this life
has been too hard on your mother?"
"Yes, sir, I do. It's hard on a boy, why shouldn't it be doubly hard on a
woman?"
The minister sighed. "Your reply is hardly polite, Jason, though I
suppose my question merited it." Then with sudden heat: "Never

mistake this cold frankness of yours for courage, my son. It takes more
courage usually to be courteous than to be impolite. Did you notice that
I coughed violently yesterday evening at Sister Clark's?"
"Yes, sir."
"Well, the cause of it was this. She went down to the spring and fetched
a pail of water for the mush. When I was eating my helping, I felt a
lump in my mouth. But the old lady had her eye on me every minute
for fear I wouldn't enjoy the frugal meal, so I could only investigate
with my tongue. I found that she had cooked a little bit of a frog in the
mush. Now, Jason, if she had discovered that she never would have
recovered from the mortification. The only time in her life the minister
stopped with her. So, though it made me choke, I swallowed it. That,
sir, is my idea of courtesy. I wish you not to forget it."
Jason's cool, speculative young gaze was on his father's face as he
answered:
"I understand, father."
The minister turned away. "No, you don't. I doubt if you ever do." And
he did not speak again until they reached home.
[Illustration]

III
WAR

[Illustration]
III
WAR

And so Jason went away to study medicine. He worked very hard and
progressed very rapidly. By the time he was twenty he was no longer
"the doctor's boy." He was a real assistant in all but fees. He had no
share in the doctor's income and always was desperately hard up.
At first, he did not ask his father and mother for help. He did all sorts of
odd chores to pay his way. But as he progressed in his profession, he
had less and less time for earning his up-keep and had finally to write
home for money. His mother always answered his letters and she never
failed to send him money when he asked for it. How she managed it,
Jason never asked. Perhaps he was ashamed to know.
In all these four years he did not come home. He would have liked to
but the trip was prohibitively expensive.
Late in the fall of 1861, he received a letter from his mother containing
a ten-dollar bill. It was a short letter. "Your father can't live more than a
week. Come at once."
Jason put his head down on that letter and sobbed, then dried his eyes
and sought the doctor, who loaned him the rest of the money needed for
the trip.
The minister's circuit had swung him round again to High Hill. Jason
disembarked from the packet late one November afternoon, carrying
his carpet bag. Even in November, High Hill was beautiful. Through
his sadness, Jason again felt the thrill of the giant headlands, the
thousand hills of his boyish imaginings.
There was the same little cottage, more weather-beaten than he had
remembered it. His mother was waiting for him at the door. The four
years had changed her, yet she seemed to Jason more beautiful than his
mental picture of her had been.
She kissed him with trembling lips. "He's still with us," she whispered.
"I'm sure he waited for you."
"What is the matter with him?" asked Jason, huskily, as he deposited

his carpet bag on the sitting-room table.
"Lung fever. He took a bad cold a month ago coming home from West
Virginia in the rain. He was absent-minded, you know. If it hadn't been
for Pilgrim, I don't think he'd ever got here."
"Pilgrim?" asked Jason, warming his hands at the fire.
"Surely I've written you about Pilgrim. Father bought him soon after
you left. He's the wisest horse that ever lived. If you're warm, now,
Jason, come to your father."
He followed her into the bedroom which opened off the kitchen. His
father lay on the feather bed, his eyes closed. O how worn--O how
changed! Young Jason was hardened to suffering and death. He had not
realized that to the sickness and death of one's own, nothing can harden
us. He stood breathing hard while his mother stooped over the bed.
"Ethan," she said softly, "our boy is here."
Brother Wilkins opened his eyes and smiled faintly. He tried to say
something