It was the unfinished part of the house. The Veaseys had always meant to plaster, but that consummation was still afar. The laths showed meagrely; it was a skeleton of a room,--and, sunken in the high feather-bed between the two windows, lay Johnnie Veasey, his buoyancy all gone, his face quite piteous to see, now that its tan had faded. Mary went up to the bedside, and laid one cool, strong hand upon his wrist. His eyes sought her with a wild entreaty; but she knew, although he seemed to suffer, that this was the misery of delirium, and not the conscious mind. Adam had come trembling to the door, and stood there, one hand beating its perpetual tattoo upon the wall. Mary looked up at him with that abstracted gaze with which we weigh and judge. "He's feverish," said she. "Mattie didn't tell me that. How long's he been so?" "I dunno. I guess a matter o' two days." "Two days?" "Well, it might be off an' on ever sence he fell." Adam was helpless. He depended upon Mattie, and Mattie was not there. "What did the doctor leave?" Adam looked about him. "'T was the Herb doctor," he said. "He had her steep some trade in a bowl." Mary Dunbar drew her hand away, and walked two or three times up and down the bare, bleak room. The seeking eyes were following her. She knew how little their distended agony might mean; but nevertheless they carried an entreaty. They leaned upon her, as the world, her sick world, was wont to lean. Mary was, in many things, a child; but her attitude had grown to be maternal. Suddenly she turned to Adam, where he stood, shaking and hesitating, in the doorway. "You goin' to send him off?" "Pears as if that's the only way," shuffled Adam. "To-day?" "Well, I dunno 's they'll come"-- Mary walked past him, her mind assured. "There, that'll do," said she. "You set down in your corner. I'll be back byme-by." She hurried out into the bleak world which was her home, and, at that moment, it looked very fair and new. The birds were singing, loudly as they ever sang up here where there were few leaves to nest in. Mary stopped an instant to listen, and lifted her face wordlessly to the clear blue sky. It seemed as if she had been given a gift. There, before one of the houses, she called aloud, with a long, lingering note, "Jacob!" and Jacob Pease rose from; his milking-stool, and came forward. Jacob was tall and snuff-colored, a widower of three years' standing. There was a theory that he wanted Mary, and lacked the courage to ask her. "That you, Mary Dunbar?" said he. "Anything on hand?" "I want you to come and help me lift," answered Mary. Jacob set down his milk pail, and followed her into the Veaseys' kitchen. She drew out the tin basin, and filled it at the sink. "Wash your hands," said she. "Adam, you set where you generally do. You'll be in the way." Jacob followed her into the sick-room, and Adam weakly shuffled in behind. "For the land's sake!" he began, but Mary was at the head of the bed, and Jacob at the foot.