Yesterday Uncle Pompey spent most of his time
catching the chickens and bringing them in for him to feel, and
Lovelace Peyton has a box of straw on a chair by the bed, with a hen
tied in it, setting on a dozen eggs.
But a thing that stops my breath with pain is, that I am fraid that
Lovelace Peyton is beginning to think about being blind, and my throat
aches while I write what happened when Roxanne left him with me after
he had called us.
"Do you want me to read the medicine book, now, Lovelace Peyton? Mumps
comes next," I said, as I sat down by the head of the bed, nearer than
I liked to the setting hen.
"No, Phyllie," he answered in a queer, unlifelike way. "Please find
blind eyes and read all about them to me."
"Oh, they are not interesting," I said, and the lump rose so I could
hardly breathe. "Let me read measles, if you don't think you will like
mumps. Do you remember that experiment about cutting away a piece of
the heart itself that the man tried? Let me read that again." I was
pleading with him so that my voice began to tremble.
"Please let me put my hand on your face, Phyllie, so if I kin git you
to tell the truth to me, I kin feel if you cry," he said as he reached
up and put one little hand that is getting white and weak against my
cheek.
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