“Well, how’d he take that?” asked the interested Sallie.

“He said if I thought he was an invalid any longer I had another guess coming.  Says he’ll be up and into his clothes by to-morrow, and is going to take care of me.  Says I’m pale and need a highball, whatever that is.”

“Never heard of it,” said Sallie.

“He’s a good young man, if he did get pitched overboard,” went on Mrs. Stoddard.  “But he doesn’t need me any more, and I guess I’ll be going along home.”

“I don’t know but what the rest of us need you,” complained Sallie.  “It’s more of a Sunday-school picnic here than you’d think, what with a New York press agent and a princess, to say nothing of that Mr. Hand.”

“He certainly knows how to manage a sick man,” said Susan.

“He don’t talk like a Christian,” said Sallie.

Mrs. Stoddard made her way to Agatha in the cool chamber at the head of the stairs.  Agatha, in a dressing-sack, with her hair down, called her in and sent Lizzie away.

“You’re not going, are you, Mrs. Stoddard?” She took Susan’s two hands and held them lovingly against her cheek.  “It won’t seem right here, without you.”

“You’ve done your duty, Agatha, and I’ve done mine, as I saw it.  I’m not needed here any more, but I’ll send Angie over to help Sallie with the work, after I get the crab-apples picked.”

Agatha held Mrs. Stoddard’s hands closely.  “Ah, you have been good to us!”

“There is none good but One,” quoted Mrs. Stoddard; nevertheless her eyes were moist with feeling.  “You’ll stay on in the old red house?”

“I don’t know; probably not for long.  But I almost wish I could.”

“I’ve learned a sight by you, Agatha.  I want you to know that,” said Susan, struggling with her reticence and her impulse toward confession.

“Oh, don’t say that to me, Mrs. Stoddard.  I can only remember how good you’ve been to us all.”

But Susan would not be denied.  “I thought you were proud and vain and—­and worldly, Agatha.  And I treated you harsh, I know.”

“No, no.  Whatever you thought, it’s all past now, and you are my friend.  You’ll help me to take care of this dear old place—­yes?”

“The Lord will establish the work of your hands, my child!” She suddenly turned with one of her practical ideas.  “I wouldn’t let that new city man in to see Mr. Hambleton just yet, if I were you.”

“Is Mr. Straker trying to get in to see Mr. Hambleton?”

“Knocked at the door twice this morning, and I told him he couldn’t come in.  ‘Why not?’ said he.  ‘Danger of fever,’ said I. Then Mr. Hambleton asked me who was there, and I said, ’I don’t exactly know, but it’s either Miss Redmond’s maid’s beau or a press agent,’ and then Mr. Hambleton called out, as quick and strong as anybody, ’Go ’way!  I think I’ve got smallpox.’  And he went off, quicker’n a wink, and hasn’t been back since.”  Mrs. Stoddard’s grim old face wrinkled in a humorous smile.  “I guess he’ll get over his smallpox scare, but Mr. Hambleton don’t want to see him, not yet.  He wants to see you.”