"He's worse than he has been, ain't he?" she said, abruptly.
The doctor hesitated. He was an old man with a moderate manner. He
buttoned his old great-coat, redolent of drugs, closer, his breath
steamed out in the frosty entry. "I guess you had better be a little
careful about getting him excited," he said at last, evasively. "You
had better get along as easy as you can with him." The doctor's
manner implied more than his words; he had his own opinion of Deborah
Thayer's sternness of rule, and he had sympathy with Rebecca.
Deborah seemed to have an intuition of it, for she looked at him, and
raised her voice after a manner which would have become the Deborah
of the scriptures.
"What would you have me do?" she demanded. "Would you have me let him
have his own way if it were for the injury of his soul?" It was
curious that Deborah, as she spoke, seemed to look only at the
spiritual side of the matter. The idea that her discipline was
actually necessary for her son's bodily weal did not occur to her,
and she did not urge it as an argument.
"I guess you had better be a little careful and get along as easy as
you can," repeated the doctor, opening the door.
"That ain't all that's to be thought of," said Deborah, with stern
and tragic emphasis, as the doctor went out.
"What did the doctor say, mother?" Ephraim inquired, when she went
into the room again.
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