"I say so, too," Tom replied. "She's too weak for that."
With a snort of anger, the old man threw the lancet into his saddlebags, snapped them together and strode through the cabin door.
The Boy followed him wistfully to the stable, and when he seized the bridle to put on the horse, caught his hand and looked up:
"Please don't go," he begged. "I'm mighty sorry I made you mad. I didn't go to do it. You see——" his voice faltered—"I love her so I just couldn't let you cut her arm open and see her bleed. I didn't mean to hurt your feelings. Won't you stay and help us? Can't ye do somethin' else for her? I'll pay ye. I'll go work for ye a whole year or five years if ye want me—if you'll just save her—just save her, that's all—don't go—please don't!"
Something in the child's anguish found the rough old man's heart. His eyes grew misty for a moment, he slipped one arm about the Boy's shoulders and drew him close.
"God knows I'd stay and do something if I could, Sonny, but I don't know what to do. I'm not sure I'm right about the bleeding or I'd stay and make you help me do it. But I'm not sure—I'm not sure—and I can do no good by staying. Keep her warm, give her all the good food her stomach will retain. That's all I can tell you. She's in God's hands."
With a heavy heart the Boy watched him ride away as the sun rose over the eastern hills. The doctor's last words sank into his soul. She was in God's hands! Well, he would go to God and beg Him to save her. He went into the woods, knelt behind a great oak and in the simple words of a child asked for the desire of his heart. Three times every day and every night he prayed.
For four days no change was apparent. She was very weak and tired, but suffered no pain. His prayer was heard and would be answered!
The first symptom of failure in circulation, he promptly met by placing the hot stones to her feet. And for hours he and Sarah would rub her until the cold disappeared.
On the morning of the seventh day she was unusually bright.