When she came down the trap was waiting. Her father went out with her, put her into the vehicle and tucked the robes about her. The world was flooded with sunshine, the grass down in the folds of the hills was vividly green, the tree-tops, gray and brown, were tossing softly; the professor thrust a bill in his daughter's hand. "Tell the doctor to get whatever he thinks Susan might need." Frances had one last word. "Don't telegraph yet!" she begged. It seemed a senseless thing, but he did as she pleaded. The afternoon was full of duties for him. He went through them mechanically and before he was done had a sharp message from the doctor, "Come out at once!" Frances had driven around for the doctor, told him briefly what she feared for Susan, gave her father's message, and then, white and dumb, had no other word to say through their drive. The doctor, glad of an hour's quiet, lounged in his seat, as they made what speed they could through heavy mud and mire and great pools of water; the dull sodden fields and green patches of winter wheat and far-off hazy mountains claimed scarce a glance, but once or twice he looked curiously at the face of the girl by his side. He had held her, a new-born babe, known every phase of her childhood and girlhood, and it cut him to the heart to see that stricken look. He had his own dread of the cause likewise; for the tragedy the professor told was one which had stirred the town. Soon as they glimpsed the cabin, they saw Susan's spare figure standing on the step, the door closed behind her, while she strained her anxious eyes for help. She hurried to the trap. While the doctor fumbled with his medicine case, Frances sprang out on the other side. She hastened at once to the door; she did not even hear Susan's anxious "Honey, maybe yuh'd bettah not go in dyar!" She pushed it open. There sat Bill by the fire. There, on Susan's bed-- Frances gave a great cry and sank on her knees beside it. "Great God!" cried the doctor as he pushed her roughly aside, for there, on Susan's bed, with closed eyes and no signs of life showing in his face, lay Edward Montague. The doctor ran his hand under the covers over the man's heart. "He's libin'!" declared Susan, "he's been moanin' once or twice!" "He's in a swoon. Bring me my medicine case! Give me a spoon! Chafe his hands and wrists!" The doctor worked anxiously; there was a faint flicker in the pulse, a slow beating of the heart. "Come away!" he commanded as they went over to the window. "Where did you find him?" asked the doctor. "Down dyar!" Susan pointed down the valley with shaking fingers, "ebery day o' my life Ise used to comin' out an' lookin' up an' down an' ober to the hills, an' thinkin' 'bout de Bible an' de hills dat gib strength. Dis mornin'--" Frances made an impatient movement, but the doctor quieted her. He knew Susan must tell her story her own way.