“All right,” said Junior, “at least one of the jobs you’ve set me is agreeable. I don’t mind in the least seeing how popular I can make myself. As a matter of fact, I deeply enjoy it, and in about ten days I’ll show you an altogether different atmosphere. It’s evident to my young mind that this village has needed me, that I’m of importance on this job, and in the meantime, I think you had better take Mother and go on a vacation. If you’ll allow me to say so confidentially, you’re looking as if a keen blast of the wrath of Heaven had struck you.” Junior left the room. Martin Moreland went on decorating the blotter. No one kept any account of the length of time he spent or the intricacy of the designs that he drew. He heard the whistles blowing for noon before he arose and reached for his hat, and as he left the room he was saying softly to himself: “‘The wrath of Heaven.’ I wonder what the wrath of Heaven can do to me?” CHAPTER XVII “A MILLSTONE AND THE HUMAN HEART” During the days that Mahala lay approaching the culmination of the final test as to whether her physical forces were strong enough to endure the ravages of the fever and leave her only sufficient strength to go on breathing, Jason worked frantically. For the first time in his life he found himself doing the thing that was popular. Every one was willing to help him. Carpenters would work over hours and on holidays; painters and paper hangers were equally accommodating. The neighbours on the farms surrounding Mahala’s forty acres came to his rescue. Without being asked, they mowed weeds, burned brush heaps, trimmed the orchard, and rebuilt tottering fences. They made a day of straightening the leaning stable on its foundations and staying its framework, so that with new roof and sheathing, it would be a tenable building for many years to come. Jason superintended everything, but he confined his personal work to the house. While the men were nailing shingles and laying flooring, he was peeling off rotten plastering, tearing away broken lathing, working wherever he could lend a hand in most swiftly furthering the task he had undertaken. Every morning he stood at the foot of Mahala’s bed looking down at her a few moments before he went to work. All day her tortured face was the spur that drove him to accomplishments worthy of the best efforts of two men. Jemima kept assuring him that he need not be so terribly anxious. There would be a crisis, but she and Doctor Grayson and the nurse were watching for it; they would be prepared; they would save Mahala.