“I know I kin.”  A great load seemed to lift itself from Jim’s heart as he burst out of the house.  He opened Ike’s door without knocking.  The man sat by the empty fireplace with his head bowed over the ashes.

“Ike,” he said, and then stopped.

Ike raised his head and glanced at him with a look of dull despair.  “She’s gone,” he replied; “’Tildy’s gone.”  There was no touch of anger in his tone.  It was as if he took the visit for granted.  All petty emotions had passed away before this great feeling which touched both earth and the beyond.

“I come fu’ the baby,” said Jim.  “Marthy, she’ll take keer of it.”

He reached down and found the other’s hand, and the two hard palms closed together in a strong grip.  “Ike,” he went on, “I’m goin’ to drop the ‘Junior’ an’ the ‘ham,’ an’ the two little ones’ll jes’ grow up togethah, one o’ them lak the othah.”

The bereaved husband made no response.  He only gripped the hand tighter.  A little while later Jim came hastily from the house with something small wrapped closely in a shawl.

THE FAITH CURE MAN

Hope is tenacious.  It goes on living and working when science has dealt it what should be its deathblow.

In the close room at the top of the old tenement house little Lucy lay wasting away with a relentless disease.  The doctor had said at the beginning of the winter that she could not live.  Now he said that he could do no more for her except to ease the few days that remained for the child.

But Martha Benson would not believe him.  She was confident that doctors were not infallible.  Anyhow, this one wasn’t, for she saw life and health ahead for her little one.

Did not the preacher at the Mission Home say:  “Ask, and ye shall receive?” and had she not asked and asked again the life of her child, her last and only one, at the hands of Him whom she worshipped?

No, Lucy was not going to die.  What she needed was country air and a place to run about in.  She had been housed up too much; these long Northern winters were too severe for her, and that was what made her so pinched and thin and weak.  She must have air, and she should have it.

“Po’ little lammie,” she said to the child, “Mammy’s little gal boun’ to git well.  Mammy gwine sen’ huh out in de country when the spring comes, whaih she kin roll in de grass an’ pick flowers an’ git good an’ strong.  Don’ baby want to go to de country?  Don’ baby want to see de sun shine?” And the child had looked up at her with wide, bright eyes, tossed her thin arms and moaned for reply.

“Nemmine, we gwine fool dat doctah.  Some day we’ll th’ow all his nassy medicine ‘way, an’ he come in an’ say:  ‘Whaih’s all my medicine?’ Den we answeh up sma’t like:  ‘We done th’owed it out.  We don’ need no nassy medicine.’  Den he look ‘roun’ an’ say:  ‘Who dat I see runnin’ roun’ de flo’ hyeah, a-lookin’ so fat?’ an’ you up an’ say:  ’Hit’s me, dat’s who ‘tis, mistah doctor man!’ Den he go out an’ slam de do’ behin’ him.  Ain’ dat fine?”