"It sho' was a sight! Dis mornin' de meader was jes' as wet, an' de grass was all flat where de watah done run off it, an' de crows was flyin' an' callin' up in de sky. I kep' goin' to de do' an' lookin' an' lookin', an' by an' by I sees sumpin' down by dat little fringe o' trees, an' I knows, jes' lak dat, dat 'twas a man. I says to Bill--he 's been hobblin' roun' right smart lately--'Bill, yuh come 'long, dyar's a man down dyar.' An' when we got dyar we seed 'twas Marse Edward, an' dat's all." "How did you get him here?" "Oh, we got him up, eben if he is right sizable." Susan had little to say of her own feat, and of Bill's. "I pulls off his clothes and gets him into bed wid a hot brick to his feet, an' den I runs out to de road an' de firs' pusson I sees I sends to Mr. Frazier's." The doctor had been holding the whispered talk near the little window. He had done all he could, and while he waited he made Susan tell the tale, for the sake of the girl who leaned against the cabin side, that stricken look yet in her face. "Why did you send for her?" he asked sternly. "La! Who I gwine git to help me if 'tain't Miss Frances?" "Why didn't you send for her father?" "Ain't I been libin' in his house all dese years," whispered Susan back indignantly, "an' don't I know he's nebber to be 'sturbed when he's at his work. He's down at de hall now!" The doctor went back to the bedside. He motioned Susan and bent to his work again. By and by the inert figure stirred; there was a faint flush of color in the white face; the doctor put a spoon to his lips, again and again. The young man opened his eyes, looked at him without a glimpse of recognition, turned a little on his side, and fell asleep. "He's dry--quite?" the doctor whispered to Susan. "I stripped off ebery rag he had. He's got on Bill's shut now." A smile twitched the doctor's mouth, but he went on gravely enough. "Is the brick hot?" "'Tis de third one I done put in dyar!" "Keep the fire going all you can!" to Bill. Bill before the fire piled log after log with utmost quiet. The doctor pushed a flag chair noiselessly towards Frances; Susan, used to long waiting, drooped by the footboard; the doctor walked to and fro with noiseless footsteps from bed to window. Out there, the narrow valley was flooded with sunshine, the stream running full and red with the clay of the fields it had ravaged; in here lay the victim of the flood. He took out his watch, slipped it back again, looked long out of the little window towards the distant purple peaks, went back to the bedside, looked, leaned over,--turned, his face beaming. "Perspiration!" he whispered, as he touched the edges of the young man's forehead. "You mean--" gasped Frances. "He's all right, for the present, if he doesn't have pneumonia. My dear child!" for Frances went white to the lips. "No!" she steadied herself, "I'm not going to faint! Thank God!"