For Uncle Beck was a dreamer. He thought more of his variorum Shakespeare than he did of his medical practice. And he was slow-going and slow-speaking and so conscientious that he told patients the truth ... all which did not help him toward success and solid emolument. He would take eggs in payment for his visits ... or jars of preserves ... or fresh meat, if the farmer happened to be slaughtering.
"Where's Granma?" I asked Aunt Alice, as she shoved a batch of bread in the oven.
"She's out Halton way ... she'll go crazy with joy when she gets word you're back home. She'll start for here right off as soon as she hears the news. She's visiting with Lan and his folks."
When I heard Lan mentioned I couldn't help giving a savage look.
Aunt Alice misinterpreted.
"What, Johnnie—won't you be glad to see her!... you ought to ... she's said over and over again that she loved you more than she did any of her own children."
"It isn't that—I hate Landon. I wish he was dead or someone would kill him for me."
"Johnnie, you ought to forgive and forget. It ain't Christian."
"I don't care. I'm not a Christian."