At that Sarah Dean fairly exploded. “Be you gone clean daft, Dan'l?” said she. “Don't you know that it actually ain't safe to take out such a delicate little thing as that on such a day?” “Dr. Trumbull said to take her outdoors for a walk every day, rain or shine,” returned Daniel, obstinately. “But Dr. Trumbull didn't say to take her out if it rained fire and brimstone, I suppose,” said Sarah Dean, viciously. Daniel looked at her with mild astonishment. “It is as much as that child's life is worth to take her out such a day as this,” declared Sarah, viciously. “Dr. Trumbull said to take no account of the weather,” said Daniel with stubborn patience, “and we will walk on the shady side of the road, and go to Bradley's Brook. It's always a little cool there.” “If she faints away before you get there, you bring her right home,” said Sarah. She was almost ferocious. “Just because YOU don't feel the heat, to take out that little pindlin' girl such a day!” she exclaimed. “Dr. Trumbull said to,” persisted Daniel, although he looked a little troubled. Sarah Dean did not dream that, for himself, Daniel Wise would have preferred facing an army with banners to going out under that terrible fusillade of sun-rays. She did not dream of the actual heroism which actuated him when he set out with little Dan'l, holding his big umbrella over her little sunbonneted head and waving in his other hand a palm-leaf fan. Little Dan'l danced with glee as she went out of the yard. The small, anemic creature did not feel the heat except as a stimulant. Daniel had to keep charging her to walk slowly. “Don't go so fast, little Dan'l, or you'll get overhet, and then what will Mis' Dean say?” he continually repeated. Little Dan'l's thin, pretty face peeped up at him from between the sides of her green sunbonnet. She pointed one dainty finger at a cloud of pale yellow butterflies in the field beside which they were walking. “Want to chase flutterbies,” she chirped. Little Dan'l had a fascinating way of misplacing her consonants in long words. “No; you'll get overhet. You just walk along slow with Uncle Dan'l, and pretty soon we'll come to the pretty brook,” said Daniel. “Where the lagon-dries live?” asked little Dan'l, meaning dragon-flies. “Yes,” said Daniel. He was conscious, as he spoke, of increasing waves of thready black floating before his eyes. They had floated since dawn, but now they were increasing. Some of the time he could hardly see the narrow sidewalk path between the dusty meadowsweet and hardhack bushes, since those floating black threads wove together into a veritable veil before him. At such times he walked unsteadily, and little Dan'l eyed him curiously. “Why don't you walk the way you always do?” she queried. “Uncle Dan'l can't see jest straight, somehow,” replied the old man; “guess it's because it's rather warm.”