“I hate to think of it,” she said unsteadily.  “Lizzie is miserable, to-day.  Will you tell your mother, Billy, and ask her to come over to see her this evening?  I mustn’t stop any longer now.”

Poor old Lizzie was miserable, indeed.  For years, she had struggled against rheumatism, but now it had bound her, hand and foot.  Ma Norton came over in the evening.  Lizzie was in bed shivering and flushed and moaning with pain.

“Now, don’t bother about me,” she insisted.  “Lydia’s threatening to stay home to-morrow, and I tell you I won’t have it,” and the poor old soul began to cry weakly.

Ma pulled the covers over the shaking shoulders.  “If I were you, Lizzie, I’d think about getting well and let Lydia do what she thinks best.  A day or so out of school isn’t going to count in the long run with a young thing like her.”

She waited till Lizzie slept, then she told Lydia and Amos that Dr. Fulton had better be called, and Amos with a worried air, started for town at once.

Dr. Fulton shook his head and sighed.

“She’s in for a run of rheumatic fever.  Get some extra hot water bottles and make up your mind for a long siege, Lydia.”

And it was a long siege.  Six weeks of agony for Lizzie, of nursing and housework and worrying for Lydia.  Ma Norton and the neighbors gave what time they could, but the brunt, of course, fell on Lydia.  She fretted most about her college work.  Sitting by Lizzie’s bed, when the old lady dozed in her brief respites from pain, she tried to carry on her lessons alone, but with indifferent success.  She was too tired to concentrate her mind.  Trigonometry rapidly became a hopeless tangle to her; Ancient History a stupid jumble of unrelated dates.  And most of all, as the days went by, she felt the indifference of University folk.  Nobody cared that she had dropped out, it seemed to her.

Billy called every evening on his way home to supper.  He filled water buckets, chopped wood and fed the chickens, that Amos might be free to take Lydia’s place.  John Levine sat up two or three nights a week.  Kent came out once a week, with a cheery word and a basket of fruit.  And at frequent intervals, the Marshall surrey stopped at the gate and Elviry or Dave appeared with some of Elviry’s delicious cookery for Lydia and Amos.

One afternoon in April when Lizzie had at last taken a turn for the better, Lydia elected to clean the kitchen floor.  She was down on her hands and knees scrubbing when there came a soft tap on the open door.  She looked up.  Professor Willis was standing on the steps.

“Goodness!” exclaimed Lydia, rising with burning cheeks.

“I—­I couldn’t make any one hear at the front door.  I came to see why you didn’t come to class.”

Lydia was wearing a faded and outgrown blue gingham.  Her face was flushed but there were black rings round her eyes, and she was too tired to be polite.