Eunice shook her head.  She had all her mother’s obstinacy, and darken Victoria’s door she would not.  She went on patiently darning socks, sitting at the west window, which was her favorite position—­perhaps because she could look from it across the sloping field and past the crescent curve of maple grove to her lost home.

After milking, Caroline threw a shawl over her head and ran across the field.  The house looked lonely and deserted.  As she fumbled at the latch of the gate the kitchen door opened, and Christopher Holland appeared on the threshold.

“Don’t come any farther,” he called.

Caroline fell back in blank astonishment.  Was this some more of Victoria’s work?

“I ain’t an agent for the smallpox,” she called back viciously.

Christopher did not heed her.

“Will you go home and ask uncle if he’ll go, or send for Doctor Spencer?  He’s the smallpox doctor.  I’m sick.”

Caroline felt a thrill of dismay and fear.  She faltered a few steps backward.

“Sick?  What’s the matter with you?”

“I was in Charlottetown that night, and went to the concert.  That sailor sat right beside me.  I thought at the time he looked sick.  It was just twelve days ago.  I’ve felt bad all day yesterday and to-day.  Send for the doctor.  Don’t come near the house, or let any one else come near.”

He went in and shut the door.  Caroline stood for a few moments in an almost ludicrous panic.  Then she turned and ran, as if for her life, across the field.  Eunice saw her coming and met her at the door.

“Mercy on us!” gasped Caroline.  “Christopher’s sick and he thinks he’s got the smallpox.  Where’s Charles?”

Eunice tottered back against the door.  Her hand went up to her side in a way that had been getting very common with her of late.  Even in the midst of her excitement Caroline noticed it.

“Eunice, what makes you do that every time anything startles you?” she asked sharply.  “Is it anything about your heart?”

“I don’t—­know.  A little pain—­it’s gone now.  Did you say that Christopher has—­the smallpox?”

“Well, he says so himself, and it’s more than likely, considering the circumstances.  I declare, I never got such a turn in my life.  It’s a dreadful thing.  I must find Charles at once—­there’ll be a hundred things to do.”

Eunice hardly heard her.  Her mind was centered upon one idea.  Christopher was ill—­alone—­she must go to him.  It did not matter what his disease was.  When Caroline came in from her breathless expedition to the barn, she found Eunice standing by the table, with her hat and shawl on, tying up a parcel.

“Eunice!  Where on earth are you going?”

“Over home,” said Eunice.  “If Christopher is going to be ill he must be nursed, and I’m the one to do it.  He ought to be seen to right away.”

“Eunice Carr!  Have you gone clean out of your senses?  It’s the smallpox—­the smallpox!  If he’s got it he’ll have to be taken to the smallpox hospital in town.  You shan’t stir a step to go to that house!”