“I want ye to know that I'm much obliged to ye, J'rome,” he whispered. He felt for Jerome's hand and shook it. “Thank ye, thank ye, J'rome,” he repeated, brokenly.
“I don't want any thanks,” replied Jerome. “Can't you take the money and make Henry go with you to Boston and see the doctor, if she won't?”
“It's no use goin' agin her, J'rome.”
“I believe she's crazy.”
“No, she ain't, J'rome—no, she ain't. She knows how you saved up that money, an' she won't take it. She's made so she can't take anybody else's sufferin' to ease hers, an' so's Henry—he's like his mother.”
“Can't you make her take it, Uncle Adoniram?”
“She can't make herself take it; but I'm jest as much obliged to ye, J'rome.”
Adoniram was about to re-enter the house. “She'll wonder where I be,” he muttered, but Jerome stopped him. “If I do begin work on the mill to-morrow,” said he, “I sha'n't be able to fetch and carry to Dale, nor to do as much work in Uncle Ozias's shop. Do you suppose you can help out some?”
“I can, if I'm as well as I be now, J'rome.”
“Of course, you can earn more than you do now,” said Jerome. That was really the errand upon which he had come to the Judds that evening. He had been quite elated with the thought of the pleasure it would give them, when the possibility of larger service—Henry's cure by means of his cherished hoard—had suddenly come to him.