Upstairs, in the little green room, where the only movement was the stirring of the thin curtains in the soft wind, lay the girl herself. The active feet were quiet, the busy hands were folded and the dancing eyes were closed. There was nothing about the passive figure that was like Miss Billy. Even the mass of copper-brown hair had been cut away. But this death-like stupor was less terrifying than the intervals of raging fever in which Miss Billy laughed, sang and talked, and lived over and over again her girlish trials and hopes and fears. "It's such hard work," she would say, tossing restlessly from side to side in the little bed. "Such hard work! Mr. Schultzsky, it's a lie, I tell you. He didn't hit your horse, I saw it all! It's a lie, I tell you. I didn't mean to hurt you! It's my fault, though, not Ted's!... Oh, Ted, you didn't need to step on my grass seed. Why won't you let things grow? It's so hot, so hot, here. Beatrice, you needn't be so mean! He's a friend of mine. Why won't you be kind to him? Please do, please do. He's helped me so." Then the busy brain would go back to the old life: "Myrtle Blanchard called us poor. I don't want to be poor. I hate it. I hate Cherry Street! I hate heat! I'm _so_ tired!" It was when the fever was at its height that the family first guessed the depth of Miss Billy's feeling, for in her delirium she talked wildly of wanting to go back "home," away from Cherry Street, to where everything was "quiet and clean." She longed for Margaret's home-coming, and begged piteously that the Blanchards might not "come in." And then the wild look would disappear, and she would drop back on the pillow with the same old pathetic cry: "I'm so tired. _So_ tired." So day after day passed. Delirium, restlessness, pain and weakness filled Miss Billy's waking hours, and the only peace came when she sank into a deep stupor, which was almost as fearful to the watchers. The work of the Improvement Club had been abandoned. Ted applied himself industriously to school, and Beatrice found her only comfort in doing housework that gave her no time to think, and left her so physically tired at night that sleep came, after all. Mrs. Van Courtland almost lived at the house, and Margaret, Francis and John Thomas came daily, to hear the reports and bring comfort and help. The members of the Child Garden hung about the gate, begging for news, Mrs. Hennesy waylaid the doctor each morning, and Mrs. Levi sent Moses to the door with a new dainty every day. The life on Cherry Street seemed to centre about the one small room in the old-fashioned house, and the whole street waited and hoped while the autumn sped, and Miss Billy grew no better. It was after one of the worst days that Beatrice crept out of the room, with her heart full, and her eyes overflowing with tears. She felt her way blindly downstairs, and almost bumped into Francis, who was standing in the dark hall. "I didn't ring," he said. "How _is_ the little girl?"