Part 6

Being of that type of man who does his thinking before and not after a decision, Mr. Thomas Clyde arose in the morning with an untroubled mind as to his new venture in household economics. Voices from the library attracted him thither, as he came downstairs, and, entering, he beheld his guest hedged in a corner by the grandmother of the Clyde household.

“Don’t tell me, young man,” the old lady was saying, in her clear, determined voice. “You’ve not slept well for ages! I know that kind of an eye.”

“Mrs. Sharpless has been diagnosing my case, Mr. Clyde,” called the guest, with a rather wry smile.

“You stay here for a while,” said she vigorously, “and I’ll cocker you up. I don’t believe you even eat properly. Do you?”

“Maybe not,” admitted the young man. “We doctors are sometimes less wise for ourselves than for others.”

“Oh! So you’re a doctor?” asked the grandmother with a shrewd, estimating glance.

“Dr. Strong is, I hope, going to stay with us awhile,” explained her son-in-law.

“Good!” said Mrs. Sharpless. “And I’ll take care of him.”

“It’s a strong inducement,” said Dr. Strong gracefully. “But I want a little more material on which to base a decision.”

“Between us Grandma and I ought to be able to answer any questions,” said Mr. Clyde.

“About sickness, then, in the family. I’ve already introduced myself to Mrs. Clyde and questioned her; but her information isn’t definite.”

“Myra seldom is,” observed Mr. Clyde. “It’s part of her charm. But Grandma Sharpless has been keeping a daybook for years. Everything that’s ever happened, from the cat’s fits to the dressmaker’s misfits, is in that series. I’ve always thought it might come in handy sometime.”

“Just the thing!” said Dr. Strong heartily. “Will you bring it, Mrs. Sharpless? I hope you’ve included your comment on events as well as the events themselves.”

“My opinions are generally pronounced enough so that I can remember ‘em, young man,” returned Mrs. Sharpless, as she departed for the desired volumes.

“That last remark of yours sounded a little like making fun of Grandma,” suggested Mr. Clyde, as the door closed after her.

“Far from it,” retorted Dr. Strong quickly. “Can’t you see that she’s a born diagnostician? She’s got the sixth sense sticking out all over her. Women more often have it than men. When a doctor has it, and sometimes when he’s only able to counterfeit it, he becomes great and famous.”

“Now that you speak of it, I remember my wife’s saying that when she was a girl and lived in the country, her mother was always being sent for in cases of illness.”

Dr. Strong nodded. “Heretical though it is to say so, I would rather have the diagnosis of such a woman, in an obscure case, than of many a doctor. She learns in the school of experience.”

Here, Mrs. Sharpless returned, carrying several diaries.

“These go five years back,” said she. “You’ll find ‘em pretty complete. We’ve had our fair share of trouble; measles, whooping-cough,—I thought Betsy was going to bark her poor little head off,—mumps, and chicken-pox. I nursed ‘em through, myself.”

“All of them?”

“All of ‘em didn’t have all the things because Tom Clyde sent the rest away when one of ‘em came down. All nonsense, I say. Better let ‘em get it while they’re young, and have done with it.”

“One of the worst of the old superstitions,” said Dr. Strong quietly.

“Don’t tell me, young man! Doctor or no doctor, you can’t teach me about children’s diseases. There isn’t any of those measly and mumpy ones that I’m afraid of. Bobs did scare me, though, with that queer attack of his.”

“Bobs,” explained Mr. Clyde, “is Robin, one of the eight-year-old twins.”

“Tell me about the attack.”

“When was it?” said the grandmother, running over the leaves of a selected diary. “Oh, here it is. Last March. It was short and sharp. Only lasted three days; but the child had a dreadful fever and pretty bad cramps.”

“Anything else?”