Miss Hepsy’s temper was up, and she heard the gentle pleading unmoved.

“Ye’ve meddled a good deal wi’ me, Miss Goldthwaite,” she said slowly, “and I’ve never told ye to mind yer own business before, but I tell ye now.  An’ though ye are the parson’s sister, ye say things I can’t stand.  Ye’d better be goin’; an’ ye needn’t come to Thankful Rest again till ye can let me an’ my concerns alone.”

Miss Goldthwaite rose at once, not angry, only grieved and disappointed.

“Good-bye, then, Miss Hepsy.  It was only my love for Lucy made me speak.  I’m sorry I’ve offended you.  She is a dear, good girl.  Some day, perhaps, you will be sorry you did not listen to my words,” she said, and went away.

Not many words, good or bad, did Aunt Hepsy speak in the house that night.  Lucy, busy with her mending, wondered what had passed that afternoon that Miss Goldthwaite’s stay had been so brief.  Aunt Hepsy’s eyes rested keenly on Lucy’s pale, sweet face more than once, and she was forced to admit that it was paler and thinner and more worn-looking than it need be.  But she hardened her heart, and refused to obey its more kindly promptings.  A few more days went by.  Lucy grew weaker, and flagged in her work; and Aunt Hepsy watched her, and would not be the first to take needful steps.  On Sunday morning Lucy did not come downstairs at the usual time, and even the clattering of breakfast dishes failed to bring her.  At length Aunt Hepsy went upstairs.  Lucy was still in bed.

“Are you sick, child?” said Aunt Hepsy in a strange quick voice.

Lucy answered very feebly,—­“I’m afraid I’m goin’ to be, Aunt Hepsy.  I tried to get up, but I couldn’t; and I haven’t slept any all night.”

“Where do you feel ill?”

“All over,” said the girl wearily.  “I’ve felt so for a long time, but I tried to go about.  Are you angry because I’m going to be sick, Aunt Hepsy?  It’ll be a bother to you; but perhaps I’m going to mamma.”

“Do you want to kill me outright, Lucy?” said her aunt; and even in her weakness Lucy opened her eyes wide in surprise.  “If you speak about goin’ to yer ma again,” she said, “ye will kill me.  Ye’ve got to lie there an’ get better as fast as you like.  I’ll send for Dr. Gair, an’ nurse ye night and day.”

Aunt Hepsy could have said a great deal more, but a something in her throat prevented her.  She went downstairs immediately, and despatched the boy for Dr. Gair.  During his absence, she endeavoured to induce Lucy to take some breakfast, but in vain.

“I’m real sick, Aunt Hepsy,” she said.  “Just let me lie still.  I don’t want anything but just to be quiet.”

Within the hour Dr. Gair came to Thankful Rest, for Miss Hepsy’s message had been urgent.  He was an old man, blunt-mannered, but truly tenderhearted, and a great favourite in the township.  He had not been once at Thankful Rest since Deacon Strong’s death, for neither the brother nor sister had ever had a day’s illness in their lives.  He made his examination of Lucy in a few minutes, and Miss Hepsy watched with a sinking heart how very grave his face was when he turned to her.  He had few questions to ask, and these Lucy answered as simply as she could.