had not said anything about John one way nor another; had
not inquired whether there was anything he could do, nor what the doctor
said, nor asked any of those questions that express a kindly solicitude.

"I am sorry about your hay," she answered, "but I must be going."

"Don't want to hurry you; but if you will go, the sooner the better.
That thunder-cloud is certain to bust in a few minutes." And Mr. Bowen
turned toward the house.

"Wait a minute, Mrs. Walker," called a young voice, full of kindness;
"here's my umberell. It'll save your bonnet, any how; and it's a real
purty one. But didn't I hear you say somebody was sick over to your
son's house?"

"Yes, darlin'," answered the old woman as she took the umbrella; "it's
Johnny himself; he's right bad, they say. I just got word about an hour
ago, and left everything, and started off. They think he's got the
small-pox."

Jenny Bowen, the young girl who had brought the umbrella, looked
terribly frightened. "_They_ won't let me go over, you know," she said,
nodding her head toward the house, "not if it's really small-pox!" And
then, with the hope at which the young are so quick to catch, she added,
"May be it isn't small-pox. I haven't heard of a case anywhere about. I
don't believe it is." And then she told Mrs. Walker not to fret about
home. "I will go," she said, "and milk the cow, and look after things.
Don't think one thought about it." And then she asked if the rest of
them at John Walker's were well.

"If it's Hobert you want to know about," the grandmother said, smiling
faintly, "he's well; but, darlin', you'd better not think about him:
they'll be ag'in it, in there!" and she nodded toward the house as Jenny
had done before her.

The face of the young girl flushed,--not with confusion, but with
self-asserting and defiant brightness that seemed to say, "Let them do
their worst." The thunder rattled sharper and nearer, bursting right
upon the flash of the lightning, and then came the rain. But it proved
not one of those bright, brief dashes that leave the world sparkling,
but settled toward sunset into a slow, dull drizzle.

Jenny had her milking, and all the other evening chores, done betimes,
and with an alertness and cheerfulness in excess of her usual manner,
that might have indicated an unusual favor to be asked. She had made her
evening toilet; that is, she had combed her hair, tied on a pair of
calf-skin shoes, and a blue checked apron, newly washed