enson will probably want his wife, if anybody."

"All right," said the boy as he started off on a dog-trot. News was
rare in Bonny Eagle, and Caleb Kimball was a distinguished and
interesting figure in village gossip.

Amanda Dalton had never had to hurry in her life. That was one of her
crosses, for there probably never was a woman who could do more in
less time. It was an hour and a half before William Benson came, and
in those ninety minutes she had swept the kitchen and poured a pail or
two of hot soap-suds over the floor, that may have felt a mop, but
certainly had not known a scrubbing-brush for years. She tore down the
fly-specked, tattered, buff shades, and washed the three windows;
blackened the stove; fed the dog and horse; milked the cow; strained
the milk and carried it down cellar; making three trips upstairs in
the meantime to find no change in the patient. His lids stayed down as
though they were weighted with lead, his long arms lay motionless on
the counterpane.

Amanda's blood coursed through her veins like lightning. Here was work
to her hand; blessed, healing work for days, perhaps weeks to come. In
these first moments of emotional excitement I fear she hoped it would
be a long case of helpless invalidism, during which it would be her
Christian duty to clean the lower part of the house and perhaps make
some impression on the shed; but this tempting thought was quickly
banished as she reflected that Caleb Kimball was a bachelor, and the
Widow Thatcher the person marked out by a just but unsympathetic
Providence for sick-nurse and housekeeper.

"She shan't come!" thought Amanda passionately. "I'll make the doctor
ask me to take charge. William Benson shall stay here nights an' Susan
will run in now an' then daytimes, or I'll get little Abby Thatcher to
do the rough work an' keep me company; then her mother won't make
talk."

"I don't know exactly what's the matter with the man," confessed the
doctor, when he came. "There's a mark and a swelling on the back of
his head as if he might have fallen somewhere. He hasn't got any pulse
and he's all skin and bone. He's starved out, I guess, and his
machinery has just stopped. He wants nursing and feeding and all the
things a woman can do for him. The Lord never intended men-folks to
live alone!"

"If they ain't got wit enough to find that out for themselves it ain't
likely any woman'll take the trouble to tell 'em!" exclaimed Amanda
with some spirit.