"There's a thing to do that I've been reserving as a last resort. I think the time has come to try it. This curvature presses on some vital part, and the action of his heart is uncertain. He needs the tonic of the cold,--the ice and snow. Would you trust him to me, dear? I'll take him to Doctor Hoyle. You know very well everything kindness and skill can do will be done for him there." "Yes, yes, David. You are so good to him always! Would--would you go--alone with him?" She drew closer to him, her head on his shoulder and her hand in his, but he could not see her face. "You mean without you, dearest?" "Yes." "That may be as you say. Would you prefer to go with us?" She drew a long breath, slowly, like an indrawn sigh, and something trembled to pass her heart, but suddenly the old habit of reserve sealed her lips and she remained silent. "What do you say?" he urged. "Tell me first--do you want me to go?" He was silent, and they sat waiting for each other. Then he said, "I do want you to go--and yet I don't want you to go--yet. Sometime, of course, we must go where I may find wider scope for my activities." He felt her quiver of anxiety. "Not until you are quite ready yourself, dear, always remember that." Still she was silent, and he continued: "I can't say that I'm quite ready myself. I would prefer one more year here, but Hoyle must be removed without delay. We may have waited too long as it is. Will your mother consent? She must, if she cares to see him live." "Oh, David! Go, go. Take him and go to-morrow. Leave me here and go--but--come back to me, David, soon--very soon. I--I shall need you, I-- Can you leave Hoyle there and come back, David? Or must you bide there, too?" Suddenly she bowed her face in her hands. "Oh, I'm so wicked and selfish to think of leaving him there without you or me or mother--one. David, what can we do? He might die there, and you--you must come back for the winter; what would save him, might kill you. Oh, David! Take me with you, and leave me there with him, and you come back. Doctor Hoyle will take care of him--of us--once we are there." "Now, now, now! hold your dear heart in peace. Why, I'm well. To stay another winter would only be to establish myself in a more rugged condition of body--not that I must do so. We'll talk with your mother to-morrow. It may be hard to persuade her." But he found the mother most reasonable and practical. He even tried to abate her perfect trust in him and his ability to bring the child back to her quite well and strong. "This isn't a trouble that is ever really cured, you know. When taken young enough, it may be helped, and I've known people who have lived long and useful lives in spite of it. That's all we may hope for." "Waal, I 'low ye can't git him no younger'n he be now, an' he's that peart, I reckon he's worth hit--leastways to we-uns." "Of course he's worth it."