Next morning Eve was perceptibly worse: the breathing was more laboured; the fever blazed higher. This in spite of Stair and his ceaseless ministrations. Stark despair tore at the husband’s throat.
Following Stair, as the circuit-rider left the room for a moment to wash his hands at the pump, Titus demanded fiercely:
“She’s a-aimin’ to die, ain’t she? Spit out the truth, man! I got a right to hear it!”
“I can’t say,” answered Stair, taking no offence at the furious manner. “She is in the midst of the crisis now. It is the turning-point in such cases. If she rallies from that—Meanwhile we can only hope—and work. It is in God’s hands. She——”
“In Gawd’s hands!” mocked Jeff, wildly. “In Gawd’s hands, hey? You’re Gawd-a’mighty fond of blattin’ ’bout Gawd, parson! But I take notice He ain’t a-doin’ nothin’ fer that pore sick gal of mine, in yonder. Why ain’t He? Where is He, anyhow, if He cain’t——”
“He is here,” answered Stair very quietly. “Here, and in that delirious girl’s room, back there. He is wherever His children cry out to Him in sorrow and pain—just as, in your inmost heart, you are crying to Him now. If His children are too deaf or too scared or too noisy, in their grief, to know He has come at their call, then the fault is with their own stupidity; and not with the all-pitying Father, who is carrying them through the ordeal.”
He pushed past the mouthing Titus and went back to his post in the sick-room.
On the second morning Eve was in a heavy sleep. Her once-parched forehead was moist. Stair, with a jerk of his thumb, motioned Jeff out into the dooryard. On his withered face was the glow of a conqueror. Harshly, as if in doubt of his own self-control, the circuit-rider said:
“The crisis is past. She has turned the corner. I think she will live. The rest depends on nursing—on building her up. You may thank God, if you care to. Or if you still think He hasn’t been here——”
“If He ain’t,” choked Titus ecstatically, “He sent a damn’ fine substitoot:—meanin’ no disrespec’. I—I reckon, parson—I reckon you-all knows how small I feel; ’bout blabbin’ like I did. An’—an’—Oh, you’re dead sure she’s a-goin’ to live? There—there ain’t—there ain’t nothing I c’n say! But—but——”