“I dunno what you mean, Cephas.”

“It stands to reason.  I’ve worked it all out in my mind.  Rheumatiz comes on in wet weather, because there’s too much water an’ damp ’round.  Now, if there’s too much water outside, you can kind of even it up by takin’ more water inside.  The reason for any sickness is—­the balance ain’t right.  The weight gets shifted, an’ folks begin to topple, then they’re sick.  If it goes clean over, they die.  The balance has got to be kept even if you want to be well.  When the swamps are fillin’ up with water, an’ there’s too much moisture in the outside air, an’ too much pressure of it on your bones an’ joints, if you swallow enough water inside it keeps things even.  If Barney Thayer had drunk a gallon of water a day, he might have worked in the wet swamp till doomsday an’ he wouldn’t have got the rheumatiz.”

“Has Barney Thayer got the rheumatiz, Cephas?”

Charlotte’s pale face appeared in the pantry door.

“Yes, he has got it bad.  ’Ain’t stirred out of his bed since night before last; been all alone; nobody knew it till William Berry went in this forenoon.  Guess he’d died there if he’d been left much longer.”

“Who’s with him now?” asked Charlotte, in a quick, strained voice.

“The Ray boy is sittin’ with him, whilst William is gone to the North Village to see if he can get somebody to come.  There’s a widow woman over there that goes out nussin’, Silas said, an’ they hope they can get her.  The doctor says he’s got to have somebody.”

“Rebecca can’t do anything, of course,” said Sarah, meditatively; “he ’ain’t got any of his own folks to come, poor feller.”

Charlotte crossed the kitchen floor with a resolute air.

“What are you goin’ to do, Charlotte?” her mother asked in a trembling voice.

Charlotte turned around and faced her father and mother.  “I shouldn’t think you’d ask me,” said she.

“You ain’t—­goin’—­over—?”

“Of course I am going over there.  Do you suppose I am going to let him lie there and suffer all alone, with nobody to take care of him?”

“There’s—­the woman—­comin’.”

“She can’t come.  I know who the woman is.  They tried to get her when Squire Payne’s sister died last week.  Aunt Sylvy told me about it.  She was engaged ’way ahead.”

“Oh, Charlotte!  I’m afraid you hadn’t ought to go,” her mother said, half crying.

“I’ve got to go, mother,” Charlotte said, quietly.  She opened the door.

“You come back here!” Cephas called after her in a great voice.

Charlotte turned around.  “I am going, father,” said she.

“You ain’t goin’ a step.”

“Yes, I am.”

“Oh, Charlotte!  I’ll go over,” sobbed her mother.

“You haven’t gone a step out-doors for a month with your own lame knee.  I am the one to go, and I am going.”

“You ain’t goin’ a step.”