The Tangled Threads | Page 7

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.
"Let's see, are these the wipers?" pursued Mrs. Howland, her hand on one of the towels hanging behind the stove.
Kate's face hardened.
"Thank you, Aunt Ellen. You are very kind, but I can do quite well by myself. You will please go into the living-room. I don't allow company to do kitchen work."
"Of course not!" acquiesced Mrs. Howland imperturbably. "But your father's sister is n't company, you know. Let's see, you put your clean dishes here?"
"But, Aunt Ellen, you must n't," protested Kate. "At home you do nothing--nothing all day." A curious expression came into Mrs. Howland's face, but Kate Merton did not seem to notice. "You have servants to do everything, even to dressing you. No, you can't wipe my dishes."
For a long minute there was silence in the kitchen. Mrs. Howland, wiper in hand, stood looking out the window. Her lips parted, then closed again. When she finally turned and spoke, the old smile had come back to her face.
"Then if that is the case, it will be all the more change for me to do something," she said pleasantly. "I want to do