"Am I going to die?"

"We hope you're going to get quite well again, if God wills, and if you
will be a good boy and let the doctor cure you."

Roy's eyes were fixed intently on his aunt now.

"How are they going to cure me?"

Then Miss Bertram nerved herself for the occasion.

"Roy, dear, you have been so patient since you lay here, that I know you
will be patient over this. Doctor Grant says that your leg will never
heal as it is, but he is sure you will get well and strong again if--if
you will make up your mind to do without it."

"Does that mean he is going to cut it off?"

"Yes."

Dead silence, broken only by the flapping of the window-curtains in the
breeze. Roy was not looking at his aunt now, but his eyes were fixed on
the distant hills through the open window. A blackbird now hovering on
some jasmine outside, suddenly lifted up his voice and burst into an
exultant song. A faint smile flickered about Roy's lips.

"Do legs _never_ grow again like teeth?"

The pathos of tone saved Miss Bertram from smiling at the comicality of