t on her. The neighbours said that
Cynthy was sharper than ever. Even her church-going was embittered.
She had always enjoyed walking up the aisle with her rich silk skirt
rustling over the carpet, her cashmere shawl folded correctly over her
shoulders, and her lace bonnet set precisely on her thin shining
crimps. But she could take no pleasure in that or in the sermon now,
when Wilbur sat right across from her pew, between hard-featured
Robins and his sulky-looking wife. The boy's eyes had grown too large
for his thin face.

The softening of Miss Cynthia was a very gradual process, but it
reached a climax one September morning, when Mrs. John Joe came into
the former's kitchen with an important face. Miss Cynthia was
preserving her plums.

"No, thank you, I'll not sit down--I only run in--I suppose you've
heard it. That little Merrivale boy has took awful sick with fever,
they say. He's been worked half to death this summer--everyone knows
what Robins is with his help--and they say he has fretted a good deal
for his father and been homesick, and he's run down, I s'pose. Anyway,
Robins took him over to the hospital at Stanford last night--good
gracious, Cynthy, are you sick?"

Miss Cynthia had staggered to a seat by the table; her face was
pallid.

"No, it's only your news gave me a turn--it came so suddenly--I didn't
know."

"I must hurry back and see to the men's dinners. I thought I'd come
and tell you, though I didn't know as you'd care."

This parting shot was unheeded by Miss Cynthia. She laid her face in
her hands. "It's a judgement on me," she moaned. "He's going to die,
and I'm his murderess. This is the account I'll have to give John
Merrivale of his boy. I've been a wicked, selfish woman, and I'm
justly punished."

It was a humbled Miss Cynthia who met the doctor at the hospital that
afternoon. He shook his head at her eager questions.

"It's a pretty bad case. The boy seems run down every way. No, it is
impossible to think of moving him again. Bringing him here last night
did him a great deal of harm. Yes, you may see him, but he will not
know you, I fear--he is delirious and raves of his father and
California."

Miss Cynthia followed the doctor down the long ward. When he paused by
a cot, she pushed past him. Wilbur lay tossing restlessly on his
pillow. He was thin to emaciation, but his cheeks were crimson and his
eyes burning bright.

Miss Cynthia stooped and took the hot, dry hands in hers