Ann, going down the cellar stairs, with a lighted candle, after some butter for tea, spied the beautiful rolls swinging overhead.  What possessed her to, she could not herself have told—­she certainly had no wish to injure Mrs. Dorcas’s wicks—­but she pinched up a little end of the fluffy flax and touched her candle to it.  She thought she would see how that little bit would burn off.  She soon found out.  The flame caught, and ran like lightning through the whole bundle.  There was a great puff of fire and smoke, and poor Mrs. Dorcas’s fine candle-wicks were gone.  Ann screamed, and sprang downstairs.  She barely escaped the whole blaze coming in her face.

“What’s that!” shrieked Mrs. Dorcas, rushing to the cellar door.  Words cannot describe her feeling when she saw that her nice candle-wicks, the fruit of her day’s toil, were burnt up.

If ever there was a wretched culprit that night, Ann was.  She had not meant to do wrong, but that, may be, made it worse for her in one way.  She had not even gratified malice to sustain her.  Grandma blamed her, almost as severely as Mrs. Dorcas.  She said she didn’t know what would “become of a little gal, that was so keerless,” and decreed that she must stay at home from school and work on candle-wicks till Mrs. Dorcas’s loss was made good to her.  Ann listened ruefully.  She was scared and sorry, but that did not seem to help matters any.  She did not want any supper, and she went to bed early and cried herself to sleep.

Somewhere about midnight, a strange sound woke her up.  She called out to Grandma in alarm.  The same sound had awakened her.  “Get up, an’ light a candle, child,” said she; “I’m afeard the baby’s sick.”

Ann scarcely had the candle lighted, before the door opened, and Mrs. Dorcas appeared in her nightdress.  She was very pale, and trembling all over.  “Oh!” she gasped, “it’s the baby.  Thirsey’s got the croup, an’ Atherton’s away, and there ain’t anybody to go for the doctor.  Oh, what shall I do, what shall I do!” She fairly wrung her hands.

“Hev you tried the skunk’s oil?” asked Grandma eagerly, preparing to get up.

“Yes, I have, I have!  It’s a good hour since she woke up, an’ I’ve tried everything.  It hasn’t done any good.  I thought I wouldn’t call you, if I could help it, but she’s worse—­only hear her!  An’ Atherton’s away!  Oh! what shall I do, what shall I do?”

“Don’t take on so, Dorcas,” said Grandma, tremulously, but cheeringly.  “I’ll come right along, an’—­why, child, what air you goin’ to do?”

Ann had finished dressing herself, and now she was pinning a heavy homespun blanket over her head, as if she were preparing to go out doors.

“I’m going after the doctor for Thirsey,” said Ann, her black eyes flashing with determination.

“Oh, will you, will you!” cried Mrs. Dorcas, catching at this new help.

“Hush, Dorcas,” said Grandma, sternly.  “It’s an awful storm out—­jist hear the wind blow!  It ain’t fit fur her to go.  Her life’s jist as precious as Thirsey’s.”