The long day ended at last and John came to the house after the evening chores were finished. Elizabeth waited for him in her bedroom. Throughout the entire evening she had been telling herself that she must make this thing right. For the sake of the expected child she must not let her mind be disturbed with the hurt feeling she had been unable to put away since John had gone out without letting her explain about the morning's baking. She allowed herself no angry or resentful thought for the prolonged and cruel reproach. Dry-eyed, she sat by the open window in her nightdress, making buttonholes in a tiny slip as she waited. She heard him deposit the basket of cobs beside the kitchen stove, which he never forgot to bring in at night, and by the rattle of the dipper which followed and the chug, chug, chug of the pump knew that he was filling the reservoir. Breakfast on the farm was an early meal and greatly facilitated by small preparations. John never forgot nor neglected his part of the household duties. Elizabeth sighed. John had the appearance of right on his side when he demanded her highest efforts at the household altar. She put away the little slip as she heard him coming toward the bedroom and rose to meet him. The tears came in spite of every effort to stay them, and to hide her face she dug it deep into his shoulder while she sobbed out her story. It was a full minute before John's arm went about her, but at last reflecting that something was due one in her condition, he patted her heaving shoulders and said as if addressing a child: "There, there now, I never thought of you feeling so bad," and after a minute's thought added, "but you see, dear, the part of the dinner you saw to yourself was all right, and the pies had to be apologized for." CHAPTER XII "PORE LITTLE WOMAN" Silas Chamberlain answered to a loud knock on his door at the midnight hour. It was the first week of August. "From Hunter's, you say?" There was a mumbled conversation at the door. "Why, yes, of course. Come right in--glad t' have you. When was you called--an hour an' a half ago? Now you come right upstairs, an' we'll have you in bed in two shakes. There now--them covers'll be too heavy, I 'spect, but you kin throw 'em off if you don't want 'em. Jest keep that light. I'll git another downstairs. Good-night. Oh, yes! Jake's gone for th' doctor, you say? Started an hour an' a half ago? Guess 'e ain't there yet--seven mile you know. Well, good-night!" Silas stumbled down the steep stairs. "Liza Ann, it's come! Pore little woman!" He got back into bed and lay so still that his wife thought him asleep. "Pore child!" she heard him say just as she was drifting off to dreamland. An hour passed. An hour and a half. There was the sound of wheels. "That's th' doctor, Liza Ann." There was no reply. The old man fidgeted for fifteen minutes more; he had grown nervous. He slid out of the bed quietly and went to the barn.