Sherm did not notice this for some time or suspect she was looking after him, but one day he remarked carelessly when she thought she had been specially clever: "Chicken Little, don't make a mollycoddle of me. A man has to learn to take what comes his way without squealing." "Yes, Sherm, but if you get thorns in your hand, it's better to try to pull them out than to go on pushing them in deeper, isn't it? I know when I was a kid, it always helped a lot to have Mother kiss it better." "How'd you get so wise, Chicken Little?" The lad smiled his wry smile. "Don't make fun of me, please, Sherm." "Make fun of you? Lady Jane, I've been taking off my hat to you for a week. How in the dickens you girls find out exactly what's going on inside a chap beats my time. It's mighty good of you to put up with my glooming and try to cheer me along. Maybe I don't look grateful, but I am." Sherm was eager to make this acknowledgment, but found it more trying than he had anticipated. He revenged himself by starting in to tease. "Say, I wish you'd try your hand at this splinter--I can't budge the critter." Jane flew for a needle, unsuspecting. The splinter didn't look serious, but she painstakingly dug it out. "Is that all right?" she demanded, looking up to encounter a wicked glint in Sherm's gray eyes. "Hm-n, aren't you going to put any medicine on it?" "Medicine?" "Well, you know you said it helped." Sherm was grinning impishly. "Sherman Dart, I think you're too mean for words!" She was about to turn away affronted when she had an inspiration. "Mother," she called, "O Mother!" Mrs. Morton had been placidly sewing in the sitting room while the young people were studying their lessons by the dining-room table. She came to the door, inquiring. "Mother, Sherm's had a splinter in his finger and he wants you to kiss it better." Sherm started to protest, but Mrs. Morton did not stop to listen. "Jane, I think that kind of a joke is very ill-timed, making your poor mother get up and come to you for nothing. You must remember I am not as young as I once was." Mrs. Morton departed with dignity. "Now will you be good?" chuckled Sherm. "Oh, I guess I'm square," Chicken Little retorted, going back to her lessons. Mrs. Morton had said truly that she was not so young as formerly. She had not been well all fall. Dr. Morton had persuaded her to see another physician, who, having assured her that she was merely run down, had prescribed the usual tonic. He had told Dr. Morton, however, that her heart action was weak and warned him to guard her against shocks of any kind and to have her rest as much as possible. This had agreed with the doctor's own diagnosis of her condition, and the family had been trying to save her from all exertion. So Chicken Little was a tiny bit conscience-stricken.