“Oh, Mis’ Field! you don’t s’pose so?”

“The Starr girl’s gone to find out.”

Mrs. Field turned to go.

“Hadn’t you better stay here till she comes?” asked Amanda, anxiously.

“No; I must go home.”  Suddenly Mrs. Field looked fiercely around.  “I’ll tell you what ‘tis, Mandy Pratt, an’ you mark my words!  I ain’t goin’ to stan’ this kind of work much longer!  I ain’t goin’ to see all the child I’ve got in the world murdered; for that’s what it is—­it’s murder!”

Mrs. Field went through the sitting-room with a stiff rush, and Amanda followed her.

“Oh, Mis’ Field, don’t take on so—­don’t!” she kept saying.

Mrs. Field went through the house into her own kitchen.  The little white-laid table stood against the wall; the tea-kettle steamed and rocked on the stove; the room was full of savory odors.  Mrs. Field set the tea-kettle back where it would not boil so hard.  These little household duties had become to her almost as involuntary as the tick of her own pulses.  No matter what hours of agony they told off, the pulses ticked; and in every stress of life she would set the tea-kettle back if it were necessary.  Amanda stood in the door, trembling.  All at once there was a swift roll of wheels in the yard past the window.  “Somebody’s come!” gasped Amanda.  Mrs. Field rushed to the back door, and Amanda after her.  There was a buggy drawn up close to the step, and a man was trying to lift Lois out.

Mrs. Field burst out in a great wail.  “Oh, Lois!  Lois!  She’s dead—­she’s dead!”

“No, she ain’t dead,” replied the man, in a drawling, jocular tone.  “She’s worth a dozen dead ones—­ain’t you, Lois?  I found her layin’ down side of the road kind of tuckered out, that’s all, and I thought I’d give her a lift.  Don’t you be scared, Mis’ Field.  Now, Lois, you jest rest all your heft on me.”

Lois’ pale face and little reaching hands appeared around the wing of the buggy.  Amanda ran around to the horse’s head.  He did not offer to start; but she stood there, and said, “Whoa, whoa,” over and over, in a pleading, nervous voice.  She was afraid to touch the bridle; she had a great terror of horses.

The man, who was Ida Starr’s father, lifted Lois out, and carried her into the house.  She struggled a little.

“I can walk,” said she, in a weakly indignant voice.

Mr. Starr carried her into the sitting-room and laid her down on the sofa.  She raised herself immediately, and sat up with a defiant air.

“Oh, dear child, do lay down,” sobbed her mother.

She put her hand on Lois’ shoulder and tried to force her gently backward, but the girl resisted.

“Don’t, mother,” said she.  “I don’t want to lie down.”

Amanda had run into her own room for the camphor bottle.  Now she leaned over Lois and put it to her nose.  “Jest smell of this a little,” she said.  Lois pushed it away feebly.