"Now, Mis' Carpenter, you're a Christian, and a soft-hearted one, we all know. Can't you let him come in and rest a bit? Mebbe you could give him sunthin' that would set him up. You understand doctorin', fust-rate." Mrs. Carpenter looked grave, considered. "Is this your idea, or the stranger's, 'Siah?" "It's his'n, ef it's anybody's in partickler. He told me to set him down some'eres, for he couldn't hold out to go on nohow; and then he seed this house, and he made me stop. He's a sick man, I tell you." "What's the matter with him?" "Wall, it's sunthin' in his insides, I guess. He don't say nothin', but he gits as white as a piece o' chalk, and then purple arter it." Mrs. Carpenter made no more delay, but bade 'Siah fetch the sick man in; and herself hastily threw open the windows of the "spare room" and put sheets on the bed. She had time for all her preparations, for the bringing the stranger to the house was a work of some difficulty, and not accomplished without the help of one of the hired men about the farm. When he came, he was far too ill to give any account of himself; his dress proclaimed him a well-to-do man, and belonging to the better classes; that was all they knew. As Mrs. Carpenter came out from seeing the stranger put to bed in the spare room, her husband came in from the field. An intellectual looking man, in spite of his farmer's dress, and handsome; but thin, worn, with an undue flush on his cheek, and a cough that sounded hollow. He was very like his little daughter, who instantly laid hold of him. "Father, father! something has happened. Guess what. There's a sick man stopped here, and he is in the spare room, and we don't know the least bit who he is; only 'Siah Barker said he was English, or an 'Englisher,' he said. We don't know a bit who he is; and his clothes are very nice, like a gentleman, and his valise is a beautiful, handsome leather one." "You use rather more adjectives than necessary, Rotha." "But, father, that is something to happen, isn't it?" "You speak as if you were glad of it." "I am not glad the man is sick. I am just glad to have something happen. Things never do happen here." "I am afraid your mother will hardly feel as much pleased as you do. Is the man very ill, Eunice?" "I think so. He is too ill to tell how he feels." "He may be on your hands then for a day or two." "He may for more than that." "How can you manage?" said Mr. Carpenter, looking anxiously at the sweet face which already bore such lines of care, and was so work-worn. "I don't know. I shall find out," Mrs. Carpenter answered as she was dishing the dinner. "The Lord seems to have given me this to do; and he knows. I guess, what he gives me to do, I can do." "I don't see how you can say that, mother," Rotha put in here. "What?" "This man was taken sick on the road, and happened to come in here. How can you say, the Lord gave him to you to take care of?"