How are you?"
"Fine, thank you."
"That's good. I've brought my father with me."
"Howdado, sir, glad to meet you."
"It's some time since you've been to see me, John," Deborah continued.
"I know it is," he answered. And then with a quick jerk of his head, "He's
been pretty bad," he said. Roger looked at the man on the bed. With his
thin waxen features drawn, the man was gasping for each breath.
"What's the matter?" Roger whispered.
"Lungs," said the young woman harshly. "You needn't bother to speak so low.
He can't hear you anyhow. He's dying. He's been dying weeks."
"Why didn't you let me know of this?" Deborah asked gently.
"Because I knew what you'd want to do--take him off to a hospital! And I
ain't going to have it! I promised him he could die at home!"
"I'm sorry," Deborah answered. There was a moment's silence, and the baby
whimpered in its sleep. One child had gone to his father's bed and was
frowning at his agony as though it were a tiresome sight.
"Are any of them coughing?" Deborah inquired.
"No," said the woman sharply.
"Yes, they are, two of 'em," John cheerfully corrected her.
"You shut up!" she said to him, and she turned back to Deborah. "It's my
home, I guess, and my family, too. So what do you think that _you_ can do?"
Deborah looked at her steadily.
"Yes, it's your family," she agreed. "And it's none of my business, I
know--except that John is one of my boys--and if things are to go on like
this I can't let him board here any more.
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