“But—­only just, it ain’t home, you know, sir!”

“I see.  And the doctors think he ought to stay up there?  Not return home—­here, I mean?”

“That’s what they say.”

“Have you—­the means to keep him at the Sanatorium over the five months we settled for in January?”

“No, sir.  That is, not—­not yet.”

“Would you like to borrow enough money to see him through the rest of the year?”

Martha deliberated.  “I may have to, sir,” she said at last with a visible effort.  “But I don’t like to borrer.  I notice when folks gets the borrerin’-habit they’re slow payin’ back, an’ then you don’t get thanks for a gift or you don’t get credit for a loan.”

This time it was Mr. Ronald who seemed to be considering.  “Right!” he announced presently.  “I notice you go into things rather deep, Martha.”

Mrs. Slawson smiled.  “Well, when things is deep, that’s the way you got to go into them.  What’s on your plate you got to chew, an’ if you don’t like it, you can lump it, an’ if you don’t like to lump it, you can cut it up finer.  But there it is, an’ there it stays, till you swaller it, somehow.”

“Do you enjoy or resent the good things that are, or seem to be, heaped on other people’s plates?”

“Why, yes.  Certaintly I enjoy ’em.  But, after all, the things taste best that we’re eatin’ ourselves, don’t they?  An’ if I had money enough like some, so’s I didn’t have to borrer to see my man through, why, I don’t go behind the door to say I’d be glad an’ grateful.”

“Would you take the money as a gift, Martha?”

“You done far more than your share already, sir.”

“Then, if you won’t take, and you’d rather not borrow, we must find another way.  A rather good idea occurred to me last night.  I’ve an uncommonly nice old place up in New Hampshire—­in the mountains.  It was my father’s—­and my grandfather’s.  It’s been closed for many years, and I haven’t given it a thought, except when the tax-bills came due, or the caretaker sent in his account.  It’s so far away my sister won’t live there, and—­it’s too big and formidable for one lone man to summer in by himself.  Now, why wouldn’t it be a capital idea for you to pack up your goods and chattels here, and take your family right up there—­make that your home?  The lodge is comfortable and roomy, and I don’t see why Mr. Slawson couldn’t recover there as well, if not better, than where he is.  I’d like to put the place in order—­make some improvements, do a little remodeling.  I need a trusty man to oversee the laborers, and keep an eye and close tab on the workmen I send up from town.  If Mr. Slawson would act as superintendent for me, I’d pay him what such a position is worth, and you would have your house, fuel, and vegetables free.  Don’t try to answer now.  You’d be foolish to make a decision in a hurry that you might regret later.  Write to your husband.  Talk it over with him.  He might prefer to choose a job for himself.  And remember—­it’s ’way out in the country.  The children would have to walk some distance to school.”