“We shouldn't take it unless I give you a note of hand, Jerome,” Adoniram interposed, in a quavering voice.
Paulina Maria looked at her husband. “What is your note of hand worth?” she asked, sternly.
“Won't you take it, Henry? I've always thought a good deal of you, and I don't want you to be blind,” Jerome said.
Henry shook his head; there was an awful inexorableness with himself displayed in his steady knitting.
“There are things worse than blindness,” said Paulina Maria. “Nobody shall sacrifice himself for my son. If our own prayers and sacrifices are not sufficient, it is the will of the Lord that he should suffer, and he will suffer.”
“Take it, Henry,” pleaded Jerome, utterly disregarding her.
“Would you take it in my son's place?” demanded Paulina Maria, suddenly. She looked fixedly at Jerome. “Answer me,” said she.
“That has nothing to do with it!” Jerome cried, angrily. “He is going blind, and this money will cure him. If you are his mother—”
“Don't ask anybody to take even a kindness that you wouldn't take yourself,” said Paulina Maria.
Jerome flung out of the room without another word. When he got out-of-doors, he found Adoniram at his elbow.