She dipped up some of the gruel in a bowl, and, adding some milk to it,
came back to him. But she was confronted by a difficulty. He could
not eat gruel and milk from a spoon while lying on his back. He saw
this, and put his hands on either side of him and started to sit up.

"Oh, don't!" she cried, setting the bowl on the floor and gently
pushing him back on his pillow; "you must not!"

He laughed. "Just like a woman. You surely don't think I'm going to
lie here for a week, like a sick cat, for such a little scratch. I've
lost some blood, that's all." And before she could prevent it, he had
drawn himself up and was smiling broadly.

"I can't look after sick folks," she said, in despair. "The doctor
will blame me."

"I heard him say if you hadn't held my cut so well I'd have bled to
death."

"Anybody else could have done it."

"Nobody else didn't."

"Do you want the gruel? Take it quick, and lie down again; you'll lose
strength sitting up."

"You'll have to feed me," he said, opening his mouth. "I'm too blamed
weak to sit up without propping with my hands, and they don't seem very
good supports. Look how that one is wobbling."