"I don't know. I suppose I ought to tell him that the end may come at any time."
But telling him was not an easy matter as Miss Fletcher found when she joined him later in the linen closet. He was busy spreading his varied possessions along the shelves on top of the piles of immaculate linen, stopping now and then to refresh himself with a bite of salt pork and some corn pone that had been packed for days along with Sally's shoes and sunbonnet and his own scanty wardrobe.
"I suppose you know," Miss Fletcher began gently, trying not to show her chagrin at the state of the room, "that your daughter is in a very serious condition."
He looked at her sharply. "Shucks! Sal'll pull through," he said with mingled defiance and alarm. "You ain't saw her afore in one of them spells. Besides, hit meks a difference when a gal's paw and grandpaw and great-grandpaw was feud-followers. A feud-follower teks more killin' then ordinary folks. Her maw was subjec' to cramp colic afore her."
"But this isn't cramp colic," Miss Fletcher urged, "it's her appendix, and it wasn't taken in time."
"Well, ain't they goin' to draw it?" he asked irritably. "Ain't that whut we're here fer?"
"Yes; but you don't understand. The doctor may decide not, to operate."
The old man's face wore a puzzled look, then his lips hardened:
"Mebbe hit's the money thet's a-woriyin' him. You go toll him that Jeb Hawkins pays ez he goes! I got pension money sewed in my coat frum the hem clean up to the collar. I hain't askin' none of you to cure my gal fer nothin'!"
Miss Fletcher laid her hand on his arm. It was a shapely hand as well as a kindly one.