Dreamily Lucy's gaze wandered off to the sunny fields, and with solemn realization it came to her that should Ellen die, they and all the Webster lands would be hers, to do with as she pleased. There were so many things she had been powerless to get her aunt to do. The house needed repairs if it were to be preserved for coming generations: certain patches of soil had been worked too long and should be allowed to lie fallow; there were scores of other improvements she would like to see carried out. Now she would be free to better the property as she saw fit. She would talk with Martin Howe about it. He was brimming with all the latest farming methods. She would get him to buy her a cultivator such as he used in his own garden, and a wheel-hoe. He could advise her, too, about plowing buckwheat into the soil. And Martin would know what to do about shingling the barn and cementing the cellar. In fact, it was amazing to discover how inseparable Martin seemed to be from her plans. He was so strong, so wise, just the type of man a woman could depend upon for sympathy and guidance. Absently she twisted the ring on her finger. Her mind had traveled to the events of the morning, to his battle with himself and final victory. How appealing had been his surrender! The stern personality had melted into a tenderness as winning as a child's. If he loved a woman and she loved him---- She started guiltily to find Ellen staring at her with vague, troubled eyes. "Where--where--am--I--?" asked the woman in a weak, quavering voice. "Upstairs in your own room, Aunt Ellen," replied Lucy gently. "How'd I come here?" "You didn't feel very well." "Yes. I remember now. I fell, didn't I?" "I'm afraid so." "I was fussin' at somethin', an' it made me dizzy. 'Twas the heat, I guess. Where'd you find me?" "In the kitchen." "An' you managed to bring me here?" Her niece hesitated. "Yes," she answered firmly. Ellen paused and with dread the girl awaited her next question. But no question came. Either the clouded mind was in too vague a mood to grasp details, or the invalid did not care. She seemed to be thinking. "So I fell," she repeated at last. "Yes." Again there was a pause, and during the stillness Lucy plainly heard the sound of approaching wagon wheels. It must be Martin with the doctor. She rose softly. "Where you goin'?" demanded her aunt. "Just downstairs a minute. I think the doctor----" "You didn't send Tony for the doctor!" the invalid exclaimed, a feeble querulousness vibrating in the words. "Yes; I didn't know what else to do." "He can't help any." "Perhaps he can." "I tell you he can't," snapped Ellen. "I know well enough what's the matter with me without bein' told. I've had a shock. My feet are all cold and numb: I can't feel nothin' in 'em, nor move 'em. There ain't no remedy for that. You're only wastin' money gettin' the man here to tell me what I already know. I shan't see him." Lucy waited a moment.