So Miles McEvoy, a much busier man these days than he had been for years before, undertook to go for Mrs. Rowantree, though he was only just back from carrying Haystack Thompson and Mr. and Mrs. Panther to the station. Carin decided to walk down the road a way to meet the wagon bringing Mary Cecily Rowantree; and Miss Zillah, seeing the prospect of another guest, went into the kitchen to stir up a cake and compound a custard. But Azalea did not move. She sat near the door and from time to time looked in at the delicate face of the sleeping youth. It appeared almost transparent as he lay there, his eyes closed and yet not quite closed, his lips trembling a little from the fluttering of his over-taxed heart. “Oh, I don’t want anything to happen to him,” her heart cried within her. “How sunny and brave he is—and yet how sad, in that strange quiet way. We know him, and yet we don’t know him. If he should die, we wouldn’t be able to send word to any of his friends, for we haven’t an idea who they are. But of course he mustn’t die. There’s no reason why he should when he’s so young and all. And yet—” The boy opened his eyes drowsily and looked about him. At first he failed to remember where he was, and half-raised himself on his elbow. Then he sank back, white and trembling. Azalea poured a glass of water from the jar they kept on the window sill, and hastening to him, lifted his head and gave him the cool drink. Keefe smiled gratefully. “You’re good,” he said simply. Then, after a pause: “Sit down, please.” Azalea took a low mountain chair and brought it near, so that she could face him. That mysterious feeling which had been hanging over her all day, whispering to her that something strange was about to happen, deepened curiously. Little chills ran lightly over her frame and she had to close her hands to keep her fingers from twitching. “It must seem particularly silly to you that a fellow can’t do a little job like the one I did yesterday without going to pieces over it,” Keefe began. “But I don’t believe I’ve ever been very strong. I have color in my face, and that rather fools people. It fools me too, and makes me think I’m of more account than I am.” “It was a terribly hard piece of work you did yesterday,” replied Azalea softly. “But perfect rest will make you all right, Aunt Zillah thinks. If I were you, I wouldn’t talk, boy. Aunt Zillah says you’re not to move a finger, and I’m sure that means you’re not to move your tongue either.” Keefe shook his head. “Never mind what anybody wants, Azalea. I’ve something to tell you and I’m going to do it now.” “Oh, I wouldn’t, Keefe, really—” Keefe lifted a languid hand, but it had authority in it. “I’ve been wanting to tell you for a long time,” he said. “You know, Zalie, if I wait—it may possibly be too late.” [Picture: Keefe lifted a languid hand. “I’ve been wanting to tell you for a long time,” he said] “No, no, Keefe, I won’t have you—”