Aunt Jane's Nieces Out West
"Now, then," she said, "get busy. I'll fix your egg. Do you want more
sugar in your chocolate? Taste it and see. And if you don't butter that
toast before it gets cold it won't be fit to eat."
He looked at her steadily now, again smiling.
"You're not joking, Miss Doyle?"
"I'm in dead earnest."
"Of course you realize this is the--the end?"
"Of your foolishness? I hope so. You used to eat like a sensible boy,
didn't you?"
"When I was well."
"You're well now. Your only need is sustaining, strengthening food. I
came near ordering you a beefsteak, but I'll reserve that for lunch."
He sipped the chocolate.
"Yes; it needs more sugar," he said quietly. "Will you please butter my
toast? It seems to me such a breakfast is worth months of suffering. How
delicious this egg is! It was the fragrance of the egg and toast that
conquered me. That, and--"
"And one sensible, determined girl. Don't look at me as if I were a
murderess! I'm your best friend--a friend in need. And don't choke down
your food. Eat slowly. Fletcherize--chew your food, you know. I know
you're nearly famished, but you must gradually accustom yourself to a
proper diet."
He obeyed meekly. Patsy's face was calm, but her heart beat fast, with a
thrill of fear she could not repress. Acting on impulse, as she had, the
girl now began to consider that she was personally responsible for
whatever result might follow this radical treatment for dyspepsia. Had
she been positive it _was_ dyspepsia, she would never have dared
interfere with a doctor's orders; but she felt that the boy needed food
and would die unless he had it. He might die from the effect of this
unusual repast, in which case she would never forgive herself.
Meantime, the boy had cast aside all fear. He had protested, indeed, but
his protests being overruled he accepted his food and its possible
consequences with philosophic resignation and a growing satisfaction.
Patsy balked on the third slice of toast and took it away from him. She
also denied him a second cup of chocolate.
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There was once an honest journeyman tailor, by name Labakan, who learned his trade with an excellent master in Alexandria. It could not be said that Labakan was unhandy with the needle; on the contrary, he could make excellent work: moreover, one would have done him injustice to have called him lazy. Nevertheless, his companions knew not what to make of him, for he would often sew for hours together so rapidly that the needle would glow in his hand, and the thread smoke, and that none could equal him.
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