“What’s wrong, Titus?” was his wondering greeting as his sharp old eyes flashed from the man with the big dog in his arms to the eternally whispering little form on the bed. “I heard a scream, as I was riding past, and——”
“Oh, parson!” gasped Jeff in babbling relief, dumping Robin on the puncheon floor and gripping the circuit-rider by both hands. “For Gawd’s sake, do suthin’ fer her! She acts like—like she ain’t goin’ to git well none!”
Loud through the mountains were the praises of Stair’s medical lore. Many were the tales of sick folk he had cured; when the old women had given them up and had begun gruesomely relishful preparations for the funeral. Jeff Titus clutched at his unexpected presence, as at a life-belt. Half in superstitious awe, he glanced at the dog whose providential screech had made the clergyman halt in his brisk ride from one county seat to the next.
Meantime, Stair had crossed to the bed, and, on his knees beside it, was examining the stricken Eve. Jeff came up behind him, standing awkwardly and with open mouth, in expectation of some miracle.
But no miracle was vouchsafed. Instead the clergyman asked one or two questions as to the illness’ course, felt the patient’s pulse and her torrid cheek, then ordered his host to go and fetch in his saddlebags.
“My medicine-kit is in them,” he explained. “And you can stable my horse, too. I’m going to stay.”
“She—she’s goin’ to git on all right, now you’re here, ain’t she?” pleaded Titus ingratiatingly, pausing at the door.
“Get my saddlebags!” was the non-committal retort. “Jump! Then you can heat some water. Wait! Before you go, open those windows. And leave the door open. Isn’t this poor child having enough trouble in breathing; without your sealing the room hermetically?”
“Sick folks hadn’t oughter be let have cold air tetch ’em, I’ve allers heard,” Jeff defended himself, nevertheless obeying. “It gives ’em——”
“It gives them life!” retorted Stair. “Now get those saddlebags!”