"Si—since—since it got dark," choked the girl.
"Is your throat sore?" asked Ruth, anxiously.
"Yes, it is; aw—awful sore."
"And you're feverish," said Ruth.
"I—I'm aw—all shivery, too," wept Amy Gregg, quite given up to misery now.
Ruth was confident that the smaller girl had developed the fever that she feared. Chill, fever, sore throat, and all, made the diagnosis seem quite reasonable.
"How did you get into this cellar?" she asked Amy.
"There's a hole in the underpinning over yonder," said the culprit.
"Come on, then; we'll get out that way. Can you walk?"
"Oh—oh—yes," choked Amy.