On a block beside each fever patient stood a tin cup, which Georgia and
I were charged to keep full of cold water, and it was pitiful to see
the eyes of the sick watch the cooling stream we poured. Our patients
eagerly grasped the cup with unsteady hands, so that part of its
contents did not reach the parched lips. Often, we heard the fervid
prayer, "God bless the women of this land, and bless the children too!"

Soon we learned to detect signs of improvement, and were rejoiced when
the convalescents smiled and asked for more to eat. Grandma carried
most of the food to them and sent us later for the empty dishes.

Of the many who came to us that season, there was but one who never
proceeded on his way. He was a young German, fair of face, but terribly
wasted by disease. His gentle, boyish manner at once made him a
favorite, and we not only gave him our best care, but when a physician
drifted into town, grandma sent for him and followed his directions. I
remember well the day that John seemed almost convalescent, relished
his breakfast, wanted to talk a while, and before we left him, had us
bring him a basin of warm water and his beflowered carpet bag, from
which he took a change of clothing and his shaving outfit.

When we saw him later, his hair was smoothly combed; he looked neat and
felt encouraged, and was sure that he should soon be up and doing for
himself. At nightfall, grandma bade us wipe the dishes quickly as
possible, at which Georgia proposed a race to see whether she could
wash fast enough to keep us busy, and we got into a frolicsome mood,
which grandma put an end to with the sobering remark:

"Oh, be not so worldly-minded. John ist very bad to-night. I be in a
hurry to go back to him, and you must hold the candle."

We passed out into the clear cold starlight, with the burning candle
sheltered by a milk pan, and picked our way between the lumber to the
unfinished room where John lay. I was the last to enter, and saw
grandma hurriedly give the candle to Georgia, drop upon her knees
beside the bed, touch his forehead, lift his hand, and call him by
name. The damp of death was on his brow, the organs of speech had lost
their power. One long upward look, a slight quivering of the muscles of
the face, and we were alone with the dead. I was so awed that I could
scarcely move, but grandma wept over him, as she prepared his body for
burial.

The next afternoon, we three and grandpa and a few friends foll