At that moment Mrs. Eagan came along. Mrs. Eagan had a large face, a large chest, large hips and a large heart. And she was carrying a large basket--of things for the wash. Cyrus withdrew his hands from that region where the tempest raged, straightened up, lifted his hat and bowed. And it was done as respectfully as if Mrs. Eagan were the leading lady of the land. Mrs. Eagan, with a smile of pleasure, returned the salutation, not gracefully perhaps, for she was hampered by the heavy basket. She knew Cyrus, and she knew that in his courtesy to her sex he made no distinctions. She knew that if the Queen of Sheba were passing at the same moment, the Queen of Sheba would have received an obeisance not a bit more deferential than the obeisance to Mrs. Eagan. But as she looked more carefully at the boy's face, her friendly eyes saw clearly there was trouble. "Why, Cyrus! Are ye sick? Ye are as white as a sheet." "Yes'm." He spoke in a fade-a-way voice, and he smiled from sheer force of will. "I feel very--very--I don't know." And one of his hands moved instinctively to the sphere of revolt. His head drooped, partly from pain; partly from shame that these awful spasms had weakened his legs and might effect his courage. "'Tis there ye are sufferin'? 'Tis the belly ache?" Cyrus nodded. "Yes--Mrs. Eagan--and I never--had--such a----" The lips quivered, his head sank lower and he leaned against the fence for support. Mrs. Eagan laid down her basket. Then closer to the smaller white face came the larger red one. "D'ye feel so bad as that, little man?" Cyrus nodded, with lips tight pressed to conceal a quivering he could not control. He looked into the light blue eyes, now near his own, and tried to smile. Mrs. Eagan said no more. Cyrus felt an arm behind his legs, another across his back, and he was lifted from the earth. She lifted him in her arms--as Hercules might have lifted a spring lamb. With his head against her shoulder she carried him easily up the long driveway to his own home.