Lovelace Peyton is not going to die from his dreadful burns, the doctors say; but as yet they can’t tell about his eyes.  They don’t dare remove the bandages, and whether or not he can see cannot be decided for a week or more.  He has to stay in a dark room and be very quiet, and it is like trying to prove that impossible is possible to persuade him into lying in his bed in Roxanne’s room, while we exert ourselves to the point of desperation to keep him happy and amused.

Since the accident Roxanne and I have just ignored the Byrd ancestors, and I bring whatever I choose across the garden into the cottage to Lovelace Peyton.  In the first place, he wouldn’t eat without me, and kept asking for things I had given him to eat; so I had to tell Roxanne about my dishonesty in feeding him like I had been doing, and she was so glad that he was fat and in good condition to stand the strain of his accident that she forgave me with her arms around my neck.

I wish I could put down in black and white between your brown covers, leather Louise, how happy it makes me to sit by that squirming, bandaged little boy, and feed him out of one of his thin ancestral spoons.  Not one thing will he eat without me.  I believe he knows how happy it makes me, and frets for me just for that special reason.  That and the fact that he expects things of me made me think up the idea that has helped us through the awfulness of the days that we had to keep him quiet.

Lovelace Peyton is not like the little boy to whom you can tell stories about bears and Little Red Ridinghood and Goldilocks in ordinary form.  He’ll listen to it a few minutes, and then when you come to the point where the grandmother is ill for Little Red Ridinghood to go and visit, he stops and wants to know exactly what was the matter with her; and if you say you don’t know, he turns over on his pillow and won’t listen to the rest of it.

“Why don’t folks write in books what diseases other folks have got, Phyllie?” he asked fretfully when I told him about Tiny Tim and the “Christmas Carol.”  “Do you reckon that little boy had rheumatiz and didn’t know any plaster for it?”

I am really reverently thankful for the idea that popped into my sorely troubled head at that moment.  Roxanne had gone out to walk in the garden for a little rest, for she has had to talk to him most of the night and describe over and over what the burn on his arm looked like when the doctor dressed it.  I was with him by myself for a few minutes when I found the treasure of an idea.

“Lovelace Peyton,” I said, with excitement in my voice more than the doctor would have approved of, “would you like me to get a real doctor’s book and read you about each disease as it comes in the book and just what the doctors use to cure it with?”

“Phyllie,” he said, sitting up in bed and waving the poor bandaged hand with delight shining from under the bandage above his eyes, “you go a running and git that book as fast as you kin.  I will promise to lie right still and listen all day and all night forever.  Hurry!”