Elizabeth and Ben sat out in the kitchen with Mrs. Browden, eating chicken livers on toast. John Peter came in while they were eating, and one side of his face was swollen from his toothache. Mrs. Browden clucked over him anxiously. “I’m full of aspirin,” John Peter said, “and it might just as well be bread crumbs for all the help it’s given my tooth.” “You better get right off to the dentist, pet lamb,” Mrs. Browden told him. “On Sunday?” John Peter asked gloomily. “Oh, my soul, so it is. But you just sit down, dear John Peter, and warm your tooth with some coffee, and I’ll go call my daughter-in-law. She’s got a brother who’s a dentist.” And she bustled off. John Peter groaned. “I’ve got a psychosis about dentists,” he said. “I must have been scared by a dentist at an early age.” “That’s very possible,” Ben said. “I know I was.” John Peter took a sip of hot coffee and groaned again. “This thing’s killing me. I suppose I shall have to go to Mrs.
