"I'm sorry I sent for him if you don't want him," she said. "But now that he is here, don't you think he'd better come up? We don't need to have him come again." Ellen did not respond at once. Then with more animation than she had exhibited, she said: "I s'pose we'll have to pay him whether he comes up or not, so I may's well get my money's worth out of him. Go and fetch him. He'll likely be tickled to death to see with his own eyes how bad off I am so'st he can go back an' blab the news in the village. Folks will be thankful to have something new to talk about." Lucy could not but smile at the characteristic remark. She went out and soon returned with Doctor Marsh tiptoeing gingerly behind her. He was a heavy, florid man whom the combination of heat and speed had transformed into a panting mechanism. Mopping the beads of perspiration from his brow, he started to seat himself at Ellen's bedside, but the woman waved him off. "Don't come any nearer," she called, "and don't bring that bag of pills and plasters in here, either. I shan't need nothin' you've got. I know that well's you do; an' I know better'n you do that there ain't no help for me. You needn't stay, an' you needn't come in. Good mornin'." Having delivered herself of this ultimatum at a single breath, Ellen turned her head and closed her eyes. The doctor looked at her in astonishment but did not move. "Clip right along home," reiterated the sick woman without looking at the physician. "My niece'll pay you as you go out. I reckon you won't charge more'n half price, since you ain't done nothin'." "I usually have----" "Mebbe. But this call ain't like your usual ones, is it?" "No," responded the doctor with dignity, "I can't say that it is." "Then you can't expect to get so much for it," piped Ellen triumphantly. "My niece will settle with you. Give him a dollar, Lucy--not a cent more. He'll have fun enough gossipin' about me to make up the rest of the fee." Doctor Marsh, his face a study in outraged decorum, stalked indignantly from the room. Ellen, peeping from beneath her lids, watched him with satisfaction. "Has he gone?" she demanded, when Lucy returned. "Yes." "Thank the Lord. The fool doesn't know anything, anyway. Now you go back downstairs an' finish up your work. There ain't no call for you to be idlin' the day out, even if I am." "I don't like to leave you alone." "Pooh, pooh! I can't no more'n die, an' if I was to start doin' that you couldn't stop me." Lucy moved toward the door; then turning she remarked gently: "I'm so sorry, Aunt Ellen." "Eh?" "I'm sorry you're ill." "Are you?" questioned the old woman, searching the girl's face with her small, flinty eyes. "Mebbe you are. You generally tell the truth. I guess if you do feel so, you're the only one; an' I don't quite see how even you can be." "I am." Her aunt fingered the sheet nervously. "You're a good girl, Lucy," she presently observed in a weary tone. "You won't lose nothin' by it, neither."