"Poor little Mesmie is having a bad time of it," Brent spoke with an effort. "It's been fourteen days, and Stone says he must try to graft skin. I offered mine, but he couldn't consider it."
"That was very fine of you, Brent," the old gentleman turned to him. "Why wouldn't he take it?"
"Oh, there wasn't anything fine about it, Colonel," he answered with a touch of irritation. "He couldn't take it because he saw us with some juleps this morning. He says he has to have healthy skin for grafting."
The Colonel cleared his throat. He had just been contemplating a signal to Zack, but now the idea seemed somehow inappropriate.
"Why not Bradford?" he asked. "He's her father!"
"He's got poison-ivy, or hives, or something." And, after another moment: "Good night, sir, I think I'll go up stairs and work!"
In the library Dale closed his book and stood up. He had overheard this conversation about skin grafting, and now went softly out through the dining-room way, thence to the overseer's cottage. Pushing open the door, he looked in.
In the uncertain glimmer of light cast by the shaded kerosene lamp, sat the doctor, Bradford and Aunt Timmie, each with eyes on the little sufferer. They did not look up, and he passed through, standing with his hands clasped behind his back, gazing down with the others at the pitiful scene. Nor did they realize he was there until his deep voice drawled:
"Brent says you want healthy skin."
"I do, very much indeed," Stone quickly arose.