"Will he break his wings on the ceiling, or will he fly out of the window?" I thought drowsily, and it appeared to me suddenly that my personal troubles--my illness, my anxiety for Sally, and even the poverty that must have pressed upon her--had receded to an obscure and cloudy distance, in which they became less important in my mind than the problem of the green June beetle knocking against the ceiling. "Will he break his wings or will he fly out?" I asked, with a dull interest in the event, which engrossed my thoughts to the exclusion of all personal matters. "I ought to think of Sally and the child, but I can't. My head won't let me. It has gone wrong, and if I begin to think hard thoughts I'll go delirious again. There is jessamine blooming somewhere. Did she have a spray in her hair when she bent over me? Why did she wear a gingham apron at a ball instead of pink tarlatan? No, that was not the problem I had to solve. Will he break his wings or will he fly out?" "Oh, we'll fit on de golden slippers, by en bye, lil' chillun," crooned Aunt Euphronasia, rocking little Benjamin in the square of sunlight. The song soothed me and I slept for a minute. Then starting awake in the cold sweat of terror, I struggled wildly after the problem which still eluded me. "Has he flown out?" I asked. "Who, Marse Ben?" enquired the old negress, stopping her rocking and her lullaby at the same instant. "The June beetle. I thought he'd break his wings on the ceiling." "Go 'way f'om hyer, honey, he ain' gwine breck 'is wings. Dar's moughty little sense inside er dem, but dey ain' gwine do dat. Is yo' wits done come back?" "Not quite. I feel crazy. Aunt Euphronasia!" "W'at you atter, Marse Ben?" "How did Sally manage?" "Ef'n hit's de las' wud I speak, she's done managed jes exactly ez ef'n she wuz de Lawd A'moughty." "And she didn't suffer?" "Who? She? Dar ain' none un us suffer, honey, we'se all been livin' on de ve'y fat er de lan', we is. Dar's been roas' pig en shoat e'vy blessed day fur dinner." She had talked me down, and I turned over again and lay in silence, until Sally came in with a dose of medicine and a cup of broth. "Have I been very ill, Sally?" "Very ill. It was the long mental strain, followed by the intense heat. At one time we feared that a blood vessel was broken. Now, put everything out of your mind, and get well." She had taken off her gingham apron, and was wearing one of her last summer's dresses of flowered organdie. I remembered that I had always liked it because it had blue roses over it. "How can I get well when I know that you have been starving?" "But we haven't been. We've had everything on earth we wanted." "Then thank God you got help. Whom did you go to?" Putting the empty glass aside, she began feeding me spoonfuls of broth, with her arm under my pillow. "If you will be bad and insist upon knowing--I didn't go to anybody. You said you couldn't bear being helped, you know."