“I don’t believe much in specialists,” asserted Patsy.  “If you do, go ahead and kill yourself, in defiance of the law.  According to common sense you ought to eat plenty of good, wholesome food, but you may be so disordered—­in your interior—­that even that would prove fatal.  So I won’t recommend it.”

“I’m doomed, either way,” he said quietly.  “I know that.”

“How do you know it?” demanded Maud in a tone of resentment.

He was silent a moment.  Then he replied: 

“I cannot remember how we drifted into this very personal argument.  It seems wrong for me to be talking about myself to those who are practically strangers, and you will realize how unused I am to the society of ladies by considering my rudeness in this interview.”

“Pshaw!” exclaimed Uncle John; “we are merely considering you as a friend.  You must believe that we are really interested in you,” he continued, laying a kindly hand on the young fellow’s shoulder.  “You seem in a bad way, it’s true, but your condition is far from desperate.  Patsy’s frankness—­it’s her one fault and her chief virtue—­led you to talk about yourself, and I’m surprised to find you so despondent and—­and—­what do you call it, Beth?”

“Pessimistic?”

“That’s it—­pessimistic.”

“But you’re wrong, sir!” said the boy with a smile; “I may not be elated over my fatal disease, but neither am I despondent.  I force myself to keep going when I wonder how the miserable machine responds to my urging, and I shall keep it going, after a fashion, until the final breakdown.  Fate weaves the thread of our lives, I truly believe, and she didn’t use very good material when she started mine.  But that doesn’t matter,” he added quickly.  “I’m trying to do a little good as I go along and not waste my opportunities.  I’m obeying my doctor’s orders and facing the future with all the philosophy I can summon.  So now, if you—­who have given me a new lease of life—­think I can use it to any better advantage, I am willing to follow your counsel.”

His tone was more pathetic than his words.  Maud, as she looked at the boy and tried to realize that his days were numbered, felt her eyes fill with tears.  Patsy sniffed scornfully, but said nothing.  It was Beth who remarked with an air of unconcern that surprised those who knew her unsympathetic nature: 

“It would be presumptuous for us to interfere, either with Fate or with Nature.  You’re probably dead wrong about your condition, for a sick person has no judgment whatever, but I’ve noticed the mind has a good deal to do with one’s health.  If you firmly believe you’re going to die, why, what can you expect?”

No one cared to contradict this and a pause followed that was growing awkward when they were all aroused by the sound of hasty footsteps approaching their corner.

CHAPTER VIII

THE MAGIC OF A NAME