Then the doctor locked the door, put the key in his pocket, and turning to the astonished looker-on, said: “Let us get out of this hul-a-ba-loo! Come in here, please, where we can escape from that infernal Banshee! Now, Madam, Mrs. Swift is a very sick woman!” (“Oh,” thought Mrs. Wallace, “here is the meaning of those shiverings, last Sunday!”) “She is going to be worse before she’s better; she is absolutely alone save for these rattle-brained servants, who were bad enough to begin with, but are for leaving the poor soul here alone because she has been a bit delirious. You look like a sensible woman and a kind one. Are you an old friend, and can you by chance help her and me now, in this emergency?” Remember, you could not “push the button” then, and let the trained nurse do the rest. There was no button to push, and no trained nurse to answer it. Each family had to care for its own sick. To go to the hospital was looked upon as a degradation. Such nurses as could be had were mostly poor, old, homeless bodies, as ignorant as they were disobedient, and Mrs. Swift’s case was not a very uncommon one. Mrs. Marion Wallace paused--before she answered. She literally could not say, “I am a stranger.” At her first slow words, “I am not an _old_ friend,” such a look of despair came into the doctor’s face that she hurriedly added, “but still a friend, and--,” slowly removing her bonnet and shawl, she stepped to the hall, took the Banshee’s white apron from her, tied it about her own waist, sent the Banshee herself upstairs for a pair of slippers--“anyone’s would do”--and returning to the parlor, said, quietly: “Now, Doctor, if you will kindly give me your first instructions in writing, please. You see, I shall have to get this demoralized household set right again. When all is going smoothly, I shall only need to be told your wishes, but just at first--” And the doctor had stared a moment, and then he had caught her hands and shook them half off, crying: “You’ll stay--you’ll take charge here? You’re a mighty fine woman, I can tell you that--and what I call a good Christian, by--!” And so this strange, Southern woman came to nurse faithfully her Northern sister in sorrow--to guide her household into ways of clocklike regularity, and so heard the story of the shawl, not once, but many times--but always told with fever-cracked lips--with burning eyes and hands wandering and restless, and alas, always with hoarse entreaties to believe her--her boy could not steal--no, not even for her, his mother! He had bought the shawl from one who swore he had come by it honestly! If only the strange woman with the angry eyes would believe her! “You see, it came about like this”--she would say, and wearily begin all over again, to explain--to convince--to defend!