Michael Angelo Buonarroti | Page 7

we'll--make
an examination. Come in here, please," he added, leading the way to an
inner room.
"Gorry!" ejaculated Jason some minutes later, when he was once more

back in his chair, "I should think you might know what ails me
now--after all that thumpin' an' poundin' an' listenin'!"
"I do," said the doctor.
"Well, 't ain't six of 'em; is it?" There was mingled hope and fear in
Jason's voice. If it were six--he could see Hitty's face!
"Any physicians in your family?" asked the doctor, ignoring Jason's
question.
Jason shook his head.
"Hm-m," commented the doctor. "Ever been any?"
"Why, not as I know of, sir," murmured Jason wonderingly.
"No? Where did you get them, then,--those medical books?"
Jason stared.
"Why, how in thunder did you know--" he began.
But the doctor interrupted him.
"Never mind that. You have them, have n't you?"
"Why, yes; I bought 'em at an auction. I bought 'em last--"
"Spring--eh?" supplied the doctor.
Jason's mouth fell open.
"Never mind," laughed the doctor again, his hand upraised. "Now to
business!" And his face grew suddenly grave. "You're in a bad way, my
friend."
"B-bad way?" stammered Jason. "It--it is n't six that ails me?"

It was all fear this time in Jason's voice; some way the doctor's face had
carried conviction.
"No; you are threatened with more than six."
"Wha-at?" Jason almost sprang from his seat. "But, doctor, they
ain't--dangerous!"
"But they are, very!"
"All of them? Why, doctor, how--how many are thar?"
The doctor shook his head.
"I could not count them," he replied, not meeting Jason's eyes.
"Oh-h!" gasped Jason, and shook in his shoes. There was a long silence.
"An' will I--die?" he almost whispered.
"We all must--sometime," returned the doctor, slowly, as if weighing
his words; "but you will die long before your time--unless you do one
thing."
"I'll do it, doctor, I'll do it--if I have ter mortgage the farm," chattered
Jason frenziedly. "I'll do anythin'--anythin'; only tell me what it is."
"I will tell you," declared the doctor briskly, with a sudden change of
manner, whisking about in his chair. "Go home and burn those medical
books--every single one of them."
"Burn them! Why, doctor, them's the very things that made me know I
was sick. I should n't 'a' come ter you at all if it had n't been fur them."
"Exactly!" agreed the doctor, rubbing his hands together. "That's just
what I thought. You were well before, were n't you?"
"Why, yes,--that is, I did n't know I was sick," corrected Jason.
"Hm-m; well, you won't know it now if you'll go home and burn those

books. If you don't burn them you'll have every disease there is in them,
and some one of them will be the death of you. As it is now, you're a
well man, but I would n't trust one organ of your anatomy within a rod
of those books an hour longer!"
He said more--much more; and that his words were not without effect
was shown no later than that same evening when Jason burst into the
kitchen at home.
"Hitty, Hitty, thar ain't six, thar ain't one, thar ain't nothin' that ails me,"
he cried jubilantly, still under the sway of the joy that had been his
when the great doctor had told him there was yet one chance for his life.
"Thar ain't a single thing!"
"Well, now, ain't that nice?" murmured Hitty, as she drew up the chairs.
"Come, Jason, supper's ready."
"An' Hitty, I'm goin' ter burn 'em up--them books of Hemenway's,"
continued Jason confidentially. "They ain't very good readin', after all,
an' like enough they're kind of out of date, bein' so old. I guess I'll go
fetch 'em now," he added as he left the room. "Why, Hitty,
they're--gone!" he cried a minute later from the doorway.
"Gone? Books?" repeated Mehitable innocently. "Oh, yes, I remember
now. I must 'a' burned 'em this mornin'. Ye see, they cluttered up so.
Come, Jason, set down."
And Jason sat down. But all the evening he wondered. "Was it possible,
after all, that Hitty--knew?"

Crumbs
The Story of a Discontented Woman
The floor was untidy, the sink full of dirty dishes, and the stove a
variegated thing of gray and dull red. At the table, head bowed on
outstretched arms, was Kate Merton, twenty-one, discouraged, and sole

mistress of the kitchen in which she sat. The pleasant-faced, slender
little woman in the doorway paused irresolutely on the threshold, then
walked with a brisk step into the room. "Is the water hot?" she asked
cheerily. The girl at the table came instantly to her feet.
"Aunt Ellen!" she cried, aghast.
"Oh, yes, it's lovely," murmured the lady, peering into the copper boiler
on the stove.
"But, auntie, you--I"--the girl paused helplessly.