“I got it,” she murmured hoarsely.  “It’ll be white mull and pink eider-down.”

“What did you say?” asked Billy, coming over to the couch and peering down at her, through the dusk.

“Socks,” whispered Lydia, “bushels of socks, aren’t there, Billy?”

Billy picked up her hand and felt her pulse, pulled the shawl up over her chest, put his cheek down against her forehead for a moment as he murmured, “Oh, Lydia, don’t be sick!  I couldn’t bear it!” then he hurried to the kitchen where Lizzie was getting supper.

The next thing that Lydia knew she was in her own bed and “Doc” Fulton was taking the clinical thermometer from her mouth.  She was very much confused.

“Where’s my fifteen dollars?” she asked.

“What fifteen dollars, little daughter?” Amos was sitting on the edge of the bed, holding her hand.

“For my party dress—­white mull—­with socks—­please, Daddy.”

Amos looked at Lizzie.  “It’s what she wanted for the Junior Prom, I guess,” said the old lady, “poor child.”

“You shall have fifteen dollars, just as soon as you get well, honey,” said Amos.

“All right,” said Lydia, hoarsely, “tell Kent so’s he—­” She trailed off again into stupor.

It was a hard pull, a sharp, hard struggle with badly congested lungs, for two weeks.  It was the first real illness Lydia had had in all her sturdy young life.  Ma Norton took charge and “Doc” Fulton was there night after night.  Margery came every day, with a basket, for Elviry practically fed Amos during the two weeks.  Billy did chores.  Kent was errand boy with the little car.  And Adam sat on the doorstep for hours and howled!

And all this time Lydia wandered in a world of her own, a world that those about her were utterly unable to picture through the erratic fragments of talk she uttered from time to time.  She talked to them of little Patience, of John Levine, of old Susie, She seemed to be blaming herself for the starving of an Indian baby who was confused in her mind with little Patience.  She sought her fifteen dollars through wild vicissitudes, until Amos found the little purse under the couch pillow and, wondering over its contents, put it in Lydia’s feverish hands.  Thereafter she talked of it no more.

But Lydia was splendidly strong.  One night, after ten days of stupor and delirium, she opened her eyes on Amos’ haggard face.  She spoke weakly but naturally.  “Hello, Dad!  Ask Margery to get me the pattern we were talking about.  In a day or so I’ll be up and around.”

Amos began to cry for sheer joy.

Once she began to mend, Lydia’s recovery was unbelievably rapid.  On a Sunday, a week before the Junior Prom., she was able to dress and to lie on the living-room couch.  During the afternoon, Kent came in.  He had had one or two glimpses of the invalid before, but this was the first opportunity he’d had for a chat.