Perhaps the repetition of her name or the sound of the familiar voice broke through the sick girl's stupor, for she shivered, opened her eyes, reached out an imploring hand and stammered weakly, "Don't kill him! Don't! I can't--Don't let him! She--she--" The words died away into an unintelligible whisper. One of Harry's arms was round Isita; her cool hand was on the hot forehead, when suddenly there was the sound of a harsh voice at the entrance of the room. "Say, there! What's doin'?" It was Mrs. Biane. Almost running she came from the kitchen. "Oh! It's you, Miss Holliday! I couldn't think. Put her down. Quick! It's the spotted fever." Almost roughly the woman pushed between the bed and Harry. "I know. That's why I came," Harry explained. "But what is she saying? What does it all mean? What is she afraid of?" "Nothing." Mrs. Biane faced Harry defiantly. "The fever's got her. Biane killed one of her lambs the other night. She was comin' down with the fever then, I guess, for it's laid on her mind ever since." Mrs. Biane was evidently agitated. Leaning over the bed, she smoothed the tossed sheets and straightened the pillow. "You had better come outside," she said to Harry. "Hearin' you talk upsets her. Anyhow, it ain't safe. Like's not you might catch it." "It's not contagious. The danger is all to the one who has it. What does the doctor say?" "The doctor? We ain't had him. We don't need him. What can he do?" "A great deal. He might tell you what Isita should have to eat. Perhaps then you needn't kill her lambs." "Why not kill them?" The woman turned almost violently. "We ain't a thing to eat else. You kin see the truck patch is dead dry. There ain't no grain to feed the chickens, no hay for the stock. We might's well quit this God-forsaken desert. A man can't make nothin' here; the frost or the drought'll catch him every time." In the hoarse, whispered outburst there was a strangled sob that sent a thrill down Harry's spine. As she stared into those sunken eyes in which shone suddenly the flame of unendurable miseries, she felt that this strange woman needed pity more than blame. "Listen, Mrs. Biane," she said with gentle determination; "you must have the doctor. I've already sent for him. It shan't cost you a cent. I had to do it for Isita. People sometimes die of spotted fever, and I couldn't--I'm too fond of her--she's terribly sick. Just listen." For the voice had suddenly risen to a cry: "Not that one, Joe! Not that one! No--no!" "She hears you. She's frightened. You'd best go on." Mrs. Biane turned hurriedly to the bed. "Wake up, Isita," she said and laid her hand on her daughter's shoulder. "Oh, don't do that! You don't want her to die, do you?" Harry exclaimed, hardly knowing what she said. "She might almost as well--better, too, I guess." The words came in a despairing sob as Mrs. Biane threw her apron over her face and sank on her knees beside the bed.