don't it?), his one lung ain't no worse--it's better some--only he keeps
losin' flesh an' that puzzles'm."

"Do you think he is contented there?"

"He says he is. He says it's the grand place, an' they're all as good
to'm as if he was the king o' Harlem. _You_ seen to that, sir--he says.
An' Sam, he's always pationate, no matter what comes, but--"

"Well--_but_?"

"But--only just, it ain't _home_, you know, sir!"

"I see. And the doctors think he ought to stay up there? Not return
home--_here_, I mean?"

"That's what they say."

"Have you--the means to keep him at the Sanatorium over the five months
we settled for in January?"

"No, sir. That is, not--not _yet_."

"Would you like to borrow enough money to see him through the rest of
the year?"

Martha deliberated. "I may _have_ to, sir," she said at last with a
visible effort. "But I don't like to borrer. I notice when folks gets
the borrerin'-habit they're slow payin' back, an' then you don't get
thanks for a gift or you don't get credit for a loan."

This time it was Mr. Ronald who seemed to be considering. "Right!" he
announced presently. "I notice you go into things rather deep, Martha."

Mrs. Slawson smiled. "Well, when things _is_ deep, that's the way you
got to go into them. What's on your plate you got to chew, an' if you
don't like it, you can lump it, an' if you don't like to lump it, you
can cut it up finer. But there it _is_, an' there it stays, till you
swaller it, somehow."

"Do you enjoy or resent the good things that are, or seem to be, heaped
on other people's plates?"

"Why, yes. Certaintly I enjoy 'em. But, after all, the things taste best
that we're eatin' ourselves, don't they? An' if I had money enough like
some, so's I didn't have to borrer to see my man through, why, I don't
go behind the door to say I'd be glad an' grateful."

"Would you take the money as a gift, Martha?"

"You done far more than your share already, sir."

"Then, if you won't _take_, and you'd rather not borrow, we must find
another way. A rather good idea occurred to me last night. I've an
uncommonly nice old place up in New Hampshire--in the mountains. It was
my father's--and my grandfather's. It's been closed for many years, and
I haven't given it a thought, except when the tax-bills came due, or the
caretaker sent in his account. It's so far away my sister won't live
there, and--it's too big and formidable for one lone man to summer in by
himself. Now,