"Yes, doctor; I was afraid to ask mother about it—she looks so strange; but you will tell me every thing."
The doctor gathered up his crutches hurriedly, and stamped his way into the next room.
"Mrs. Allen," he said, sharply, "you are a brave woman. I'm nothing but a poor, miserable coward. I'm going to sneak off, and let you talk to that poor girl. I could cut the throat of a lamb when it was looking into my eyes as soon as tell her what must come. You're a Christian, Mrs. Allen, a downright Christian, and no sham—crusty and bitter, sharp and honest. You can do it; I can't. You're a Bible woman; I'm an old sinner, and am running away—do you understand—because I'm an abominable old coward. Tell her yourself."
Mrs. Allen turned white as parchment. She understood the doctor's meaning in full.
"Has she been asking questions, doctor?"
"Yes; enough to break a commonly good heart—but mine is tough as sole leather."
"She is better?"
"Yes; a great deal better."
"And when she is well enough to be moved, they will take her away?"
"I suppose so—the hounds."