The Southerner. Jr. Thomas Dixon
rose from his knees still holding her hand, his first hopeless burst of despair over, his heart beating with desperate resolution.
"You won't give up, will you, Ma?" he whispered.
She smiled wanly and he rushed on with breathless intensity: "I'm not going to let you die. 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."
"What story?"
"Not a story this time—the twenty-third Psalm."
The Boy took the worn Bible from the shelf, sat down on the edge of the bed, opened, and began in low tones to read:
"The Lord is my Shepherd, I shall not want——"
His voice choked and he stopped:
"O, Ma, I just can't read that now—why—why did he let this come to you if He's your Shepherd—why—why—why!"
He buried his face in his hands and her slender fingers touched his hair:
"He knows best, my son—read on—the words are sweet to my soul from your lips."
With an effort he opened the Book again:
"He maketh me to lie down in green pastures;
"He leadeth me beside the still waters.
"He restoreth my soul:
"He leadeth me in the paths of righteousness for His name's sake.
"Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death,
"I will fear no evil; for thou art with me——"
Again the voice choked into silence and he closed the Book.
"I can't—I can't read it. I'm afraid you're going to give up!" he sobbed. "O Ma, you won't, will you? Please say you won't?"
"No, no, I won't give up, my Boy," she said soothingly. "I'm just ready for anything He sends——"
"But I don't want you to say that!" he broke in passionately. "You must fight. You mustn't be ready. You mustn't think about dying. I won't let you die—I tell you!"
She stroked his forehead with gentle touch:
"I won't give up for your sake——"
"It's a promise now?" he cried.
"Yes, I promise——"
"Then I'm going for a doctor right away——"
"You can't find him, Boy," his father said. "It's thirty miles across the Ohio into Kentucky where he lives. An' in all this sickness he ain't at home. Hit's foolishness ter go——"
"I'll find him," was the firm response.
The father made no further protest. He helped him saddle the horse, buckled the stirrups to fit his little bare legs and gave him as clear directions as he could.
"The moon'll be shinin' all night, Boy," were his last words. "Yer can cross the river before eight o'clock. Ef ye git lost on t'other side ax yer way frum the fust house ye come to——"
The Boy nodded, and when had fixed his bare toes in the stirrups he leaned low and whispered:
"You won't give up, Pa, will ye? You'll fight for her till I get back?"
The big gnarled fist closed over the little hand on the pommel of the saddle, and the father's voice was husky:
"As long as there's breath in her body—hurry now."
The last command was not needed. The horse felt the quiver of tense suffering in the low voice and the nervous touch of the switch on his side. With a quick bound he was off at a full gallop down the trail toward the river.
The sun had set before they reached the open country beyond the great forest, but by seven o'clock the Boy saw from the hill top the shining mirror of the river in the calm moonlit valley. Before night he had succeeded in rousing the ferryman and reached the opposite shore.
He lost the way once about nine o'clock and a settler whose light he saw in the woods called sharply from the door with his rifle in hand:
"Who are you?"
"I'm just a little boy," the voice faltered. "I'm trying to find the doctor's house. My mother's about to die and I'm lost. I want you to show me the road."
The rifle was lowered and the cabin stirred. The man dropped back and a woman appeared in the door way.
"Won't ye come in, Honey, and rest a minute and me give ye somethin' to eat while Pa's gettin' ready to go with ye a piece?"
"No'm I can't eat nuthin'——"
He didn't dare go near that tender voice that spoke so clearly its sympathy in the night. He would be crying in a minute if he did and he couldn't afford that.
The settler caught a horse and rode with him an hour to make sure he wouldn't miss the way again.
He reached the doctor's house by eleven o'clock, and to his joy found him at home. The rough old man refused to move an inch until he had fed his horse and eaten a hearty meal.
The Boy tried to eat, but couldn't. The food stuck squarely in his throat. It was no use.
He went outside and waited beside his horse until the doctor was ready. It seemed an eternity, the awful wait. How serene the still beauty of the autumn night! Not a breath of wind stirred. The full moon hung in the sky straight overhead, flooding the earth with silver radiance, marking in clear and vivid lines the shadows of the trees on the ground.
Bitter wonder and rebellion filled his young soul. How could God sit unmoved among those shining stars and leave his mother to die!
The doctor came at last and they started.
In vain he urged that they gallop.
"I won't do it, sir!" the old man snapped. "Your horse has come thirty miles. I'll not let you kill him and I'm not going to kill myself plunging over a rough road at night."
They reached the cabin at daylight. The Boy saw the glow of the flame in the big fireplace through the woods and his heart beat high with new hope. Now that the doctor was here he felt sure her life could be saved.
The Boy stood close by his side when he felt her pulse, and looked at the strange whitish-brown coating on her tongue.
"You can do something, Doctor?" he asked