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.

"I'll carry his shoulders," she said, in the voice that admits no demur.
"You take his feet and legs. Sort o' fold the feather-bed up round him,
or we never shall get him through the door."

"Which way?" asked Jacob, still entirely at rest