He'll listen to it a few minutes, and then when you
come to the point where the grandmother is ill for Little Red
Ridinghood to go and visit, he stops and wants to know exactly what
was the matter with her; and if you say you don't know, he turns over
on his pillow and won't listen to the rest of it.
"Why don't folks write in books what diseases other folks have got,
Phyllie?" he asked fretfully when I told him about Tiny Tim and the
"Christmas Carol." "Do you reckon that little boy had rheumatiz and
didn't know any plaster for it?"
I am really reverently thankful for the idea that popped into my
sorely troubled head at that moment. Roxanne had gone out to walk in
the garden for a little rest, for she has had to talk to him most of
the night and describe over and over what the burn on his arm looked
like when the doctor dressed it. I was with him by myself for a few
minutes when I found the treasure of an idea.
"Lovelace Peyton," I said, with excitement in my voice more than the
doctor would have approved of, "would you like me to get a real
doctor's book and read you about each disease as it comes in the book
and just what the doctors use to cure it with?"
"Phyllie," he said, sitting up in bed and waving the poor bandaged
hand with delight shining from under the bandage above his eyes, "you
go a running and git that book as fast as you kin.
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