"I don't need it," said Sam, getting up quickly. "I'm well."
"If you are not well enough to go to work, you must take some oil."
"Yes, I am," said Sam. "I'll go right out into the field."
"I don't want you to go unless you are quite recovered. I'm sure the oil will bring you 'round."
"I'm all right, now," said Sam, hastily.
"Very well; if you think so, you can go to work."
Rather ruefully Sam made his way to the potato-field, with his hoe on his shoulder.
"Tea and castor-oil are worse than work," he thought. "The old woman's got the best of me, after all. I wonder whether she knew I was makin' believe."
On this point Sam could not make up his mind. She certainly seemed in earnest, and never expressed a doubt about his being really sick. But all the same, she made sickness very disagreeable to him, and he felt that in future he should not pretend sickness when she was at home. It made him almost sick to think of the bitter tea he had already drunk, and the oil would have been even worse.
The deacon looked up as he caught sight of Sam.