“Am I going to be very sick, Dr. Gair?” said Lucy.

“Yes, my dear; but please God, we may pull you through,” said the old man softly.  “In the meantime I can’t do much; I’ll look in again in the afternoon.”

Miss Hepsy followed him in silence down the stairs, and he drew on his gloves in the lobby without speaking.

“This is a case of gross neglect, Miss Strong,” he said at length.  “The girl’s delicate frame is thoroughly exhausted by over-fatigue and want of attention.”

“Tell me something I don’t know, Dr. Gair,” said she sharply.

“And if she recovers, of which I am more than doubtful,” he continued sternly, “it is to be hoped you will turn over a new leaf in your treatment of her.  I am a plain man, Miss Strong, not given to gilding a bitter pill.  If your niece dies, you may take home the blame to yourself.  Good morning.”

“I know all that, my good man, better than you can tell me,” said Aunt Hepsy grimly.  “You do your best to bring her round, an’ I won’t forget it.  I’ve been a wicked woman, Dr. Gair, an’ I s’pose the Lord’s goin’ to punish me now; an’ he couldn’t have chosen a surer way than by sending sickness to Lucy.  Good morning.”

Aunt Hepsy shut the door, and went into the kitchen.  There Joshua sat anxiously awaiting the doctor’s verdict.

“There ain’t much hope, Josh,” she said briefly.

“Ain’t there, Hepsy?  It’s a bad job for the little ’un.”

“An’ for more than her, I reckon,” returned his sister shortly.  “I’ve lived one and forty years at Thankful Rest, Josh, an’ I never felt as I do this day.  I’d a mighty deal rather be sick myself than see the child’s white face.  If she gets round, I’ll be a better woman, with the Lord’s help.  How He’s borne with me so long’s a marvel I can’t comprehend.  One and forty years, Josh Strong, and Lucy jes’ fifteen.  She’s done a deal more good in one day o’ her life than you or me ever did in all ours.  The Lord forgive us, Josh, an’ help us to make a better use o’ what’s left.  Jes’ step down to Pendlepoint, will ye, an’ ask the parson an’ his sister up.  I guess Lucy’d be pleased to see ’em.  One an’ forty years, dear, dear; an’ Lucy jes’ fifteen.”

Aunt Hepsy went out wiping her eyes, and stole upstairs again to
Lucy.

XIII.

Lucy finds the key.

For several days a great shadow lay on Thankful Rest while Lucy hovered between life and death.  Everything human care and skill could suggest was done, and the issue was in God’s hands.  Miss Goldthwaite had come up to Thankful Rest on Sunday, and had stayed, because Lucy seemed to be happier when she was by.  Callers were innumerable, and a messenger came from the Red House every morning asking a bulletin.  What Aunt Hepsy suffered during those days I do not suppose anybody ever guessed.  It was her way to hide her feelings always, but she would sit or