At this Hannah caught her sister around the neck, sobbing joyfully: 

“He will cure you, Ann Mary; he will cure you!” Then she asked the doctor:  “And how long will it take?  We can stay but a few days, for the boy and the horses must get back soon.”

The herb-doctor considered for a moment.

“It is now the end of June month.  By the end of September month she will be cured—­not before.”

I think I know that that was a black moment for Hannah.  She said nothing at all, but the sick girl fell to weeping.

“But, Master Doctor, we cannot stay—­we cannot!  And now, after all, I shall not be cured!”

Hannah could not bear to see her sweet Ann Mary in tears, and she cried out stoutly: 

“Yes, you shall, too!  Remember can take the horses back without us, and tell our father.  Somehow—­I can earn—­oh, we must!” Then a new fear sprang into her heart.  “Oh, sir,” she cried to the doctor, “is it dear, your cure?  Must one have much silver for it?”

The stolid little old gnome did not look toward her or change his position as he said: 

“It costs time—­no silver,” He moved toward the house.  “Go to the minister’s to-night,” he called from his doorstep.  “It is the house of brick.”  Just before he closed his door he added:  “Come here to-morrow morning.”

When they reached the great brick house, the other two hung back, afraid of so much grandeur; but three days of travel through the dangers of a primitive forest had hardened Hannah to the lesser fear of strange people.  To the old minister and his wife she told their story very briefly, with a desperate kind of self-possession, so concerned about poor Ann Mary, tired and hungry, waiting out in the night air, that she did not remember to be afraid of the minister’s fine linen and smooth, white hands, or of the laces and dark silk of his handsome, white-haired wife, or of the gold braid and red coat of a dark young man with a quick eye who sat in the corner.

The young man said nothing until after the old people had gone out to bring in the wanderers.  Then: 

“You must be fond, indeed, of your sister, my little lass,” he said kindly.

“Sir,” said Hannah, “you should see my sister!”

And just then he did see her.  Ann Mary came into the brightly lighted room, her eyes wide and dark from the dusk outside, her long black hair, shaken loose from its fastenings, curling up beautifully with the dew, and making a frame for the pearl-like oval of her face.  I have seen a miniature of Ann Mary in her youth, and I can guess how she must have looked to the young officer that evening.

The minister’s wife gave them all a hot supper, and hurried them off to bed with motherly authority.  For the first time in her life, Hannah found herself between linen sheets.  She tried to call her sister’s attention to this astonishing magnificence, but fell asleep in the middle of the sentence, and did not wake until late the next morning.  Ann Mary had been awake for some time, but did not dare get up, so overcome was she by shyness and reverence for the grandeur of the room and of her hosts.