“Not the chief end,” assented Dr. Strong; “the chief means.”
“Comfort and health,” mused Mrs. Clyde. “It seems a natural combination.”
“The most natural in the world. Let me put it into an allegory. Health is the main line, the broad line, the easy line. It’s the simple line to travel, because comfort keeps pointing it out. Essentially it is the line of the least resistance. The trouble with most of us is we’re always unconsciously taking transfers to the cross-lines. The transfer may be Carelessness, or Slothfulness, or Gluttony, or one of the Dissipations in food, drink, work or play; or it may be even Egotism, which is sometimes a poison: but they all take you to Sick Street. Don’t get a transfer down Sick Street. The road is rough, the scenery dismal, and at the end is the cemetery.”
“That’s the end of all roads,” said Grandma Sharpless.
“Then in Heaven’s name,” said the Health Master, “let us take the longest and sunniest route and sing as we go!”
XI.
THE BESIEGED CITY
To Bettina falls the credit of setting the match to the train. That lively-minded young lady had possessed herself of a large, red square of cardboard, upon which, in the midst of the Clyde family circle, she wrought mightily with a paint-brush.
“What comes after p in ‘diphtheria,’ Charley?” she presently appealed to her next older brother.
Charley considered the matter with head aslant. “Another p,” he answered, tactfully postponing the evil moment.
“It doesn’t look right,” announced the Cherub, after a moment’s contemplation. “Dr. Strong, how do you spell ‘diphtheria’?”