The Tangled Threads. Eleanor H. Porter

all the patent medicine advertisements he could lay his hands on. He was half comforted, half appalled, to read them. Far from being able to pick out his own particular malady from among the lot, he was forced to admit that as near as he could make out he had one or more symptoms of each and every disease that was mentioned.

      "Now, Hitty, I'll leave it to you," he submitted plaintively. "Here's 'Dread of impending evil.' Now I've got that, sure; ye know I'm always thinkin' somethin' dreadful's goin' ter happen. 'Sparks before the eyes.' There! I had them only jest ter-day. I was sweepin' out the barn, an' I see 'em hoppin' up an' down in a streak of sunshine that come through a crack. 'Variable appetite.' Now, Hitty, don't ye remember? Yesterday I wanted pie awful, an' I ate a whole one; well, this mornin' seems as if I never wanted ter see an apple pie again. Now, if that ain't 'variable,' I don't know what is. 'Inquietude.'"

      "Humph! You've got that all right," cut in Mehitable.

      "'Weakness.' I hain't got a mite o' strength, Hitty," he complained. "An' thar 's dizziness, too—I can't chase the calf three times round the barnyard but what my head is jest swimmin'! An' Hitty,"—his voice grew impressive—"Hitty, I've got ev'ry one of them six symptoms, ev'ry blamed one of 'em, an' I picked 'em out of six diff'rent advertisements—six! Now, Hitty, which disease is it I've got? That's what I want ter know—which?"

      His wife could not tell him; in fact, no one could tell him, and in sheer desperation Jason answered all six of the advertisements, determined to find out for a certainty what ailed him.

      In due course the answers came. Jason read one, then another, then another, until the contents of the entire six had been mastered. Then he raised his head and gazed straight into his wife's eyes.

      "Hitty," he gasped. "I've got 'em all! An' I've got ter take the whole six medicines ter cure me!"

      Even Mehitable was stirred then. For one long minute she was silent, then she squared her shoulders, and placed her hands on her hips.

      "Jason Hartsorn," she began determinedly, "this thing has gone jest as fur as I'm goin' to stand it. Do you bundle yourself off ter Boston an' hunt up the biggest doctor you can find. If he says somethin' ails ye, I 'll believe him, an' nuss ye ter the best of my ability; but as fur nussin' ye through six things—an' them all ter once—I won't! So there."

      Twenty-four hours later Jason faced a square-jawed, smooth-shaven man who looked sharply into his eyes with a curt, "Well, sir?"

      Jason cleared his throat.

      "Well, ye see, doctor," he began, "somethin' ails me, an' I ain't quite sure what 't is. I 've been poorly since last spring, but it's been kind of puzzlin'. Now, fur instance: I had a pain in my knee, so I felt sure 'twas hip-disease, but it jumped ter my shoulder, so 'course then I knew 't was my liver."

      The doctor made a sudden movement. He swung squarely around in his office chair and faced Jason.

      Jason was pleased—his learning had already made an impression! He raised his chin and went on with renewed confidence.

      "Ye see I was afraid my liver, or mebbe one o' my kidneys, was hardenin' or floatin' round loose, or doin' somethin' else they had n't orter. Lately, thar's been days, lots of 'em, when I hain't had no pain—not a mite, an' 'course that's the worst symptom of all. Then sometimes thar's been such shootin' pains that I kind o' worried fur fear 'twas locomotive ataxia; but mebbe the very next day it would change so's I did n't know but 'twas appendicitis, an' that my vermi-er-vermicelli appendix was the trouble."

      The doctor coughed—he not only coughed, but he choked, so that Jason had to pause for a moment; but it was only for a moment.

      "I 'most had diphtheria, an' pneumonia, an' smallpox this fall," he resumed complacently; "an' thar's six other diseases that I got symptoms of—that is, partly, you know:—'Variable appetite,' an' 'Inquietude,' an' all that."

      "Hm-m," said the doctor, slowly, his eyes averted. "Well, we'll—make an examination. Come in here, please," he added, leading the way to an inner room.

      "Gorry!" ejaculated Jason some minutes later, when he was once more back in his chair, "I should think you might know what ails me now—after all that thumpin' an' poundin' an' listenin'!"

      "I do," said the doctor.

      "Well, 't ain't six of 'em; is it?" There was mingled hope and fear in

       Jason's voice. If it were six—he could see Hitty's face!

      "Any physicians in your family?" asked the doctor, ignoring Jason's question.

      Jason shook his head.

      "Hm-m," commented the doctor. "Ever been any?"

      "Why, not as I know of, sir," murmured Jason wonderingly.

      "No? Where did you get them, then—those medical books?"

      Jason stared.

      "Why, how in thunder did you know—" he began.

      But the doctor interrupted him.

      "Never mind that. You have them, have n't you?"

      "Why, yes; I bought 'em at an auction. I bought 'em last—"

      "Spring—eh?" supplied the doctor.

      Jason's mouth fell open.

      "Never mind," laughed the doctor again, his hand upraised. "Now to business!" And his face grew suddenly grave. "You're in a bad way, my friend."

      "B-bad way?" stammered Jason. "It—it is n't six that ails me?"

      It was all fear this time in Jason's voice; some way the doctor's face had carried conviction.

      "No; you are threatened with more than six."

      "Wha-at?" Jason almost sprang from his seat. "But, doctor, they ain't—dangerous!"

      "But they are, very!"

      "All of them? Why, doctor, how—how many are thar?"

      The doctor shook his head.

      "I could not count them," he replied, not meeting Jason's eyes.

      "Oh-h!" gasped Jason, and shook in his shoes. There was a long silence.

       "An' will I—die?" he almost whispered.

      "We all must—sometime," returned the doctor, slowly, as if weighing his words; "but you will die long before your time—unless you do one thing."

      "I'll do it, doctor, I'll do it—if I have ter mortgage the farm," chattered Jason frenziedly. "I'll do anythin'—anythin'; only tell me what it is."

      "I will tell you," declared the doctor briskly, with a sudden change of manner, whisking about in his chair. "Go home and burn those medical books—every single one of them."

      "Burn them! Why, doctor, them's the very things that made me know I was sick. I should n't 'a' come ter you at all if it had n't been fur them."

      "Exactly!" agreed the doctor, rubbing his hands together. "That's just what I thought. You were well before, were n't you?"

      "Why, yes—that is, I did n't know I was sick," corrected Jason.

      "Hm-m; well, you won't know it now if you'll go home and burn those books. If you don't burn them you'll have every disease there is in them, and some one of them will be the death of you. As it is now, you're a well man, but I would n't trust one organ of your anatomy within a rod of those books an hour longer!"

      He said more—much more; and that his words were not without effect was shown no later than that same evening when Jason burst into the kitchen at home.

      "Hitty, Hitty, thar ain't six, thar ain't one, thar ain't nothin' that ails me," he cried jubilantly, still under the sway of the joy that had been his when the great doctor had told him there was yet one chance for his life. "Thar ain't a single thing!"

      "Well, now, ain't that nice?" murmured Hitty, as she drew up the chairs.

       "Come, Jason, supper's ready."

      "An'