he noise was truly awful. We got the boys
into the trundle-bed as soon as we could, and then mother brought out
her wheel, and I took my knitting. There was a great blazing fire on the
hearth, and the room was so warm that the yarn ran beautifully. Mother
made out her stint that night; she was a famous spinner, and the wheel
went as fast and the yarn was as even as if she had not been so
dreadfully worried about father. But every few minutes she would stop
and say she hoped he had not started, or that, having set out, he would
be warned in time, and stop by the way.

"It was so strange to see mother, who was usually calm, so put about
that I got very nervous, and was glad when she stopped the wheel, and
twisted up the yarn she had spun. But as she turned around toward me
with it in her hand, she looked so strange that I cried out to know what
was the matter.

"'It is nothing,' she whispered; but I took hold of her, and steadied
her down into the arm-chair, and then ran for the camphor. That brought
her round; but now she looked feverish, and was shaking all over, and I
knew that she was going to have one of her ill turns,--possibly
lung-fever,--for her lungs were but weak, and she rarely got over the
winter without a fever. The thought made me half wild, but I dared not
wait to cry or fret. I knew there was no time to be lost, and I hurried
around, and gave her a warm foot-bath, and kept hot flannels on her
chest, and made her drink a nice bowl of herb tea as soon as she was in
bed; for I thought when the perspiration started she would be relieved.
I was glad enough when the great drops stood on her forehead. Yet the
hard breathing and the rattling in the chest were not cured. I kept
renewing the steaming flannels, as the doctor always directed, till she
fell asleep. She slept almost all night, and I sat in the chair by her,
occasionally rousing up to put more wood on the fire, and listen to the
wind, which still held as fierce as it was at sundown.

"By and by I dozed,--I don't know how long, but I was wakened by hearing
Jem call out, 'Mercy! why don't it come day?'

"I started up. My fire had gone down, and the room was dark. Mother was
breathing heavily beside me.

"'I say, Mercy, isn't it morning? Why don't we get up?' persisted Jem.

"I begged him to be still, and, rising, made my way to the clock. I
could not see the face, but by touching the hands I made out that it
was eight o'clock. I knew now that we wer