“What’s this that’s hopeless from the first?” asked the Health Master, looking up from the novel which he was enjoying in what he called his “lazy hour,” after luncheon. “Mrs. Westerly’s case,” said the younger woman. “Even now that she’s gone to the hospital, the family won’t admit that it’s cancer.” “Ah, of the liver, I suppose,” commented the physician. “Why on earth should you suppose that?” demanded Mrs. Sharpless suspiciously. “Why, because cancer of the liver is the only form which could possibly be regarded as hopeless from the first.” “All cancer, if it is really cancer, is hopeless,” declared the old lady with vigorous dogmatism. “Don’t tell me. I’ve seen too many cases die and too few get well.” “Were those ‘few’ hopeless, too?” inquired Dr. Strong with bland slyness. “I guess they weren’t cancer, at all,” retorted Mrs. Sharpless; “just doctors’ mistakes.” “Doctors do make mistakes,” admitted the representative of the profession, “and cancer is one of the diseases where they are most commonly at fault. But the error isn’t of the kind that you suggest, Grandma Sharpless. Where they go wrong so often is in mistaking cancer for some less malignant trouble; not in mistaking the less malignant forms for cancer. And that wastes thousands of lives every year which might have been saved.” “How could they have been saved?” asked the old lady combatively. “Let me do the questioning for a minute, and perhaps we’ll get at that. Now, these many cases that you’ve known: were most of the fatal ones recent?” “Not very,” she replied, after some consideration. “No; most of them were from ten years ago, back.” “Exactly. Now, the few that recovered: when did these occur?” “Within a few years.” “None of the old cases recovered?” “No.” “But a fair proportion of the more recent ones have?” “Yes.” “All these were operated on, weren’t they?” “Yes; I believe they were. But not all that were operated on lived.” “Did a single one of those not operated on live?” “Not so far as I can remember.” “Well, there we have the truth about cancer in a few words; or, anyway, a good part of the truth. Up to twenty years ago or so, cancer was practically incurable. It always returned after operation. That was because the surgeon thought he needed only to cut out the cancer. Now he knows better; he knows that he must cut out all the tissue and the glands around the obvious cancer, and thus get the root of the growth out of the system.” “And that cures?” asked Mrs. Clyde. “In a great majority of cases, _if it is done early enough_.” The Health Master dropped his book and beat time with an emphatic forefinger to his concluding words. “But Agnes Westerly’s is cancer of the breast,” said Mrs. Clyde, as if that clinched the case against the patient. “Just about the most favorable locality.” “I thought it was the worst.”