It was in September that the family took possession of their new home, and a couple of weeks later Dr. Flint came and took up his abode with them till he should see Mr. Kennedy safely through the critical ordeal. The dwellers in the settlement generally stood aloof from this man, not because of his unfortunate record or because of the fatal incident that came so near losing him his life, but these Scotch-Irish were a God-fearing folk, and were fond of expressing their views upon portions of the Scripture, and were wont to discuss religion upon every occasion. Henry Flint never joined in these discussions; he never went to church, and it was believed that he was sceptical of those things which were as real to the sturdy believers of Presbyterian faith as was the fact of their own existence. It was said that he read books which at that time were spoken of only with bated breath. “He’s amaist an atheist, I hear,” whispered one neighbor to another, and therefore there were those who shook their heads when it was known that he would try his skill upon Fergus Kennedy. For days the children tiptoed about the house when they were allowed in it at all. On pleasant days Jessie took Fergus out where Sandy and Jock could watch over both little ones, and on rainy days the barn was their shelter. Margret helped Agnes indoors, and over her husband Mrs. Kennedy kept watch night and day, sharing her vigil, at first, only with the doctor. Later on good neighbors were prompt to offer their aid, Mrs. M’Clean, Jeanie, or Dod Hunter’s wife. Carter made his appearance every day with proffers of help. Jerry Hunter and Jimmy O’Neill directed the two lads, who were trying to do the work of men on the farm, and many a good day’s work did this or that neighbor do for them. Polly, striving desperately to moderate her tones, came very often, and stealthily carried off piles of thread to be woven, or rolls of cloth to be dyed. She would do her part even though a place by the bedside was denied her. She was a good nurse, and Agnes was afraid she might feel hurt at their refusal of her offers of assistance, but that was not like Polly; she was quite as honest to herself as she was to others. “It’s the wife’s right,” she acknowledged, “an’ I’ve a heavy tread, an’ am no so soft-voiced as some, an’ it’s quiet he’s wantin’, they say. I mind it’s aye that way when there’s aught wrong with the head.” She spoke to Agnes. “That is the important thing; absolute quiet,” the girl replied, half apologetically. “We have to walk on tiptoe, and Margret and I scarce speak above a whisper when we’re working about.” “An’ will he have his wits agin?” “We hope so, oh, we hope so.” “Yer mother’s growin’ pale wid the watchin’, an’ ye’re thin yersel’, Nancy, wi’ the hard wark ye’ve had.” “Never mind me. I am well, but it’s hard for mother, who is not used to being housed.”