“Doesn’t you think, Jim, that we could manage it––if we tried wonderful hard?”
“’Tis accordin’ t’ what fur I traps, mum, afore the ice goes an’ the steamer comes. I’m hopin’ we’ll have enough left over t’ buy the cure.”
“You’re a good father, Jim,” the mother said, at last. “I knows you’ll do for the best. Leave us wait until the spring time comes.”
“Ay,” he agreed; “an’ we’ll say nar a word t’ little Jimmie.”
They laid hold on the hope in Hook’s Kurepain. Life was brighter, then. They looked forward to the cure. The old merry, scampering Jimmie, with his shouts and laughter and gambols and pranks, was to return to them. When, as the winter dragged along, Jim Grimm brought home the fox skins from the wilderness, Jimmie fondled them, and passed upon their quality, as to colour and size and fur. Jim Grimm and his wife exchanged smiles. Jimmie did not know that upon the quality and number of the skins, which he delighted to stroke and pat, depended his cure. Let the winter pass! Let the ice move out from the coast! Let the 40 steamer come for the letters! Let her go and return again! Then Jimmie should know.
“We’ll be able t’ have one bottle, whatever,” said the mother.
“’Twill be more than that, mum,” Jim Grimm answered, confidently. “We wants our Jimmie cured.”