Death stood at the door with drawn sword to slay not to defend, but the Boy resolved to fight. She should not give up--she should not die. He would fight for her with all the hosts of hell and single-handed if he must. He 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----"