"You are so full of interrogation points you have no room for your dinner. Here--drink this milk--slowly; don't gulp it." "I know what they be. They go this-a-way." The boy set down his glass to illustrate with his slender little hand the form of the question mark. Then he laughed out gayly. "You know hu' come I got filled up with them things? I done swallered that thar catechism Cass b'en teachin' me Sundays." "No, I'm thinking you just are one yourself." "'Cause I'm crooked like this-a-way?" He twisted about and looked up at David gravely. "No, no, son. Doctor didn't mean that," said his sister. "Finish your milk," said David. "We'll have some fun with the microscope." And once again the child essayed to eat and drink a little. But the languor and pallor grew in spite of all David could do for him, and as the weeks passed his large eyes burned more brilliantly and his thin form grew more meagre. Cassandra got in the way of keeping him up at the cabin with her, and when she went down to weave, he went also and used to lie on the bundles of cotton, poring over the books which David procured for him from time to time. "What he gets in that way won't hurt him. It's not like having set tasks to learn, and he's not burdened with any 'ought' or 'ought not' about it. Let him vegetate until cooler weather. Then, if he doesn't improve, we'll see what can be done. Something radical, I imagine." The fall arrived in a splendor that was truly oriental in its gorgeousness. The changing colors of the foliage surpassed in brilliancy anything David had ever seen or imagined possible. The mantle of deepest green which had clothed the mountain sides all summer, became transmuted, until all the world was glorified and glowing as if the heat of the summer sun had been stored up during the drowsy days to burst forth thus in warmest reds and golds. "The hills look as if they had clothed themselves in Turkish rugs, ancient and fine," said David one evening, as he sat on his rock, watching them burn in the afterglow of the setting sun. "How much there is for me to learn and know," Cassandra replied in a low voice. "I never saw a Turkish rug. You often speak of things I know nothing about." David laughed and turned upon her happy eyes. "Why so sad for that? Did you think I loved you and married you for your worldly knowledge?" She smiled back at him and was silent. Presently he continued. "Now, while Hoyle is not here, I wish to talk to you a little about him." "Yes, David." Her heart fluttered with a nameless fear, but she betrayed no sign of emotion. "You've seen, of course. It's not necessary to tell you." "No, David--only--does it mean death?" She put her hand out to him, and he took it in his and stroked it. "Not surely. We'll make a fight for him, won't we, dear?" "Oh, David! What can we do?" she moaned.