"Thank goodness!" exclaimed Miss Baker, shaking the dust from her clothes and stretching her cramped limbs. "Hullo, Mr. Flint!" Her face brightened at sight of him. "What do you want?"
"Good morning, had a nice drive?" He smiled at the grimace that was her answer, and dismounted.
"I want to speak to Miss Abigail." It had occurred to him that Miss Abigail's powers of persuasion might prove more effective than his own in the matter of counselling change of air for Miss Baker, the girl being more or less under her authority. Truth to tell, he rather shrank, with masculine cowardice, from a task that he anticipated would involve something of a scene.
"Here she is, then—what's left of her after that awful journey!" There was plenty of Miss Abigail left; the stout, square figure clambered backwards from the cart, and he took comfort from the fat, kindly face and brave little eyes. He drew her aside.
"Bad news," he said; "we've got cholera in the works!"
"Ah! so it has come! I don't know which I have been dreading most, that or smallpox. Well, we must all turn to and do our best."
"But what about Miss Baker? She oughtn't to be allowed to stay——"
"Why not? She has put her hand to the plough, and surely you don't expect her to turn back?"
He felt annoyed, disconcerted. "It's all right for us," he deprecated, "but Miss Baker should go."