VIII The End of Life Is as Its Beginning — Simple
Afterward life was again to them much the same. Only they learned to go more and more to the churchyard on Sundays with homely garden flowers in their hands. But, again, they were very happy. John still maintained that they were renewing their youth. Betsy retorted that it was second childhood. For there was now a quaver in John’s voice which Betsy heard but never spoke of, and a tremor in Betsy’s hands which John saw and never mentioned.
The next winter Betsy slipped on the ice and fell. To her surprise she could not get up again. John carried her in and went for the doctor. She had broken her thigh.
She smiled up at the physician very placidly when he shook his head.
“Doctor, you must—must patch me up. John needs me.”
“John!” The doctor turned upon him where he slunk into a corner. John hung his head. Betsy laughed almost joyously.
It was she who answered the doctor’s look.
“He couldn’t git along without me.”
She smiled at John, and John smiled back. The doctor caught them at this.
“In the army?” he asked John.
“Yes,” came from the corner.
“Private?”
“Captain.”
“Oh!—”
He remembered him then. He turned and looked at him.
“You fought!”
John was silent. But Betsy’s face glowed. It was she who answered for him. All about him and the five. It made John blush.
“Hum—wounded?”
“Yes.”
“Often?”
“Three times.”
“Where?”
“Leg—thigh—arm.”
“That what makes you limp?”
“Guess so.”
“Let me look.”
John uncovered.
“Hum—why didn’t you see me long ago?”
“Dunno,” said John.
“Army surgeon. No charge to you.”
John said nothing.
“Ever apply for a pension?”
“No.”
“Why?”
“Volunteered.”
“Hell of a reason—hum!” ended the surgeon, turning his back to him and his face to the patient on the bed.
Presently he pulled on his gloves and started for the door. He stopped and looked at John once more.
“Bullet in leg myself. Going to patch you both up. Army surgeon. Entitled to my services. Didn’t apply for pension? You and I are the only two who didn’t. By.”
The doctor did patch them up. But for Betsy there was to be no more work—nor any dancing. The chubby hands could only lie quietly within each other and wither. The agile feet could not lift themselves from the floor unless John helped them.
John put away his pick and shovel.
“I’ll have to learn to make baskets,” said he.
Betsy raised her head from the pillow on her chair to laugh.
“Don’t you think I kin?”
She looked at his hands and laughed again.
“But we’ll have to try—if you’re willing. We got to do something.”
“Oh, I’m willing,” said John, hopefully.
“John!”
Two tears started down her face. John dried them and stroked the soft, withered hands.
“Dear old John—to be my ’prentice!”