“Oh, you look like--you look like--” Mrs. Porter moved to a near-by apple-tree and leaned against its trunk, and with her head down she began to laugh softly, almost sillily. Cynthia drew near her again, and, catching the old woman by the shoulders, she turned her forcibly to her. “Mother, what's the matter?” she demanded, her tone now quite full of alarm. . “Oh, Cynthia, nothing is the matter with me! I'm all right, but, but, but--good gracious! just this minute you were--we were all at the table. Your pa was in his place, mother was in hers, and, how in the world”--Mrs. Porter was looking around in seeming astonishment--“how in the world did I get out here? I don't remember leaving the house. The last thing I recall was--” “Mother, what's the matter?” Mrs. Porter stared in a bewildered way at her daughter for a moment, then she put her hand to her brow with a weary gesture. “Something _must_ be wrong with me,” she declared. “I didn't want to mention it, but this evening as I was coming back from town I got rather warm, and all at once I heard a little sound and felt something give way in my head. Oh, Cynthia, I'm afraid--I'm afraid I'm going like your aunt Martha did. They say hers was a drop of blood on the brain. Do you suppose it could be that, daughter?” “Oh, mother, come on in the house and lie down. Go to bed, and you will feel better in the morning.” Cynthia caught her arm, and, greatly perturbed, slowly led the old woman towards the house. “It's worry, daughter,” Mrs. Porter said, confidingly--“worry about you. You seem to be bothered on account of Nelson Floyd's being away, and I've allowed that to prey on my thoughts.” “Never mind him, mother,” Cynthia said. “Come on in and lie down. You don't feel any pain, do you?” “No, daughter, not a bit--not a bit; but your aunt didn't, either. She didn't suffer.” “Don't you think we ought to send for the doctor, mother?” “Doctor? No--how ridiculous! Even if it is a drop on the brain, he couldn't do me a bit of good. The brain is inside the--the--what do you call it? See there, my mind isn't what it was. I can't think of as common a thing as a--you know what I mean, Cynthia.” “You mean skull, mother,” the girl said, anxiously. “Yes, I mean that. Your aunt's memory was bad, too. She suddenly forgot her own name, and came in from the strawberry-patch one day scared out of her senses. The next thing was her hand getting numb. My thumb feels queer; I believe you could stick a needle through it and I wouldn't feel it. But don't you tell your pa, Cynthia. Wait, anyway, till to-morrow, and see how I feel then. It may pass away, and then--then, again, it may be the first stroke. They say people about my age usually have three, and the last one ends it. I hope I'll go naturally--the way Martha went was horrible; and yet when I think of all my trouble I--”