Billy frowned and shook her head. Her eyes were on Pete's palpably trembling hands.
“But, Pete, you are sick,” she protested. “Let Eliza do that.”
Pete drew himself stiffly erect. The color had begun to come back to his face.
“There hain't no one set this table much but me for more'n fifty years, an' I've got a sort of notion that nobody can do it just ter suit me. Besides, I'm better now. It's gone—that pain.”
“But, Pete, what is it? How long have you had it?”
“I hain't had it any time, steady. It's the comin' an' goin' kind. It seems silly ter mind it at all; only, when it does come, it sort o' takes the backbone right out o' my knees, and they double up so's I have ter set down. There, ye see? I'm pert as a sparrer, now!” And, with stiff celerity, Pete resumed his task.
His mistress still frowned.
“That isn't right, Pete,” she demurred, with a slow shake of her head. “You should see a doctor.”
The old man paled a little. He had seen a doctor, and he had not liked what the doctor had told him. In fact, he stubbornly refused to believe what the doctor had said. He straightened himself now a little aggressively.
“Humph! Beggin' yer pardon, Miss—ma'am, but I don't think much o' them doctor chaps.”