"What is the pest, Ma, and what makes it?"
"Nobody knows," she answered softly. "It comes like a thief in the night and stays for months and sometimes for years. They call it the 'milk-sick' because the cows die, too—and sometimes the horses. The old Indian women say it starts from the cows eating a poison flower in the woods. The doctors know nothing about it. It just comes and kills, that's all."
The little hand suddenly gripped hers with trembling hold:
"O Ma, if it kills you!"
A tender smile lighted her dark face as the warmth of his love ran like fire through her veins.
"It can't harm me, my son, unless God wills it. When he calls I shall be ready."
All the way home he clung to her hand and sometimes when they paused stroked it tenderly with both his.
"What's it like?" he asked at last. "Can't you take bitters for it in time to stop it? How do you know when it's come?"
"You begin to feel drowsy, a whitish coating is on the tongue, a burning in the stomach, the feet and legs get cold. You're restless and the pulse grows weak."
"How long does it last?"