“He was mad about it, though, and he said downright flat that he wouldn’t budge, for he is behind with his seeding, and looked to about finish it to-day; but the doctor’s housekeeper told him as how Miss Long had said that he had got to go, and then he gave in as mild as a calf—ha, ha, ha!”
Bertha wondered where the joke came in, and then was amazed to find that the face of Eunice Long was scarlet with hot, distressful blushes. She turned her head quickly then, for it did not seem right to spy into matters which did not concern her, and she could not bear for Eunice to know that she had seen. How those horses did go! And with what skill Bill guided them along the rough trail through those endless stretches of ploughed land, where the green wheat was springing in straight furrows which seemed to have no end. But Bertha hardly saw the wheat. She was wondering what was happening at that lonely little house at Duck Flats. Had Grace shown any sign of consciousness yet? And how was Tom bearing the weary waiting for the help which was so long in coming?
Bill had lapsed into a sort of shamed silence after his burst of laughter about the way in which Silas Ford had been made to do his duty, while Eunice spoke no word at all, only once or twice reached out a comforting hand to pat Bertha on the arm, as if to show a sympathy that was too deep for words. Presently the house with its barns and sheds came in sight.
“She is still alive,” announced Bill suddenly, with so much relief in his tone that Bertha instantly forgave him that unseemly burst of laughter.
“How do you know?” she asked.
He pointed with his whip to two small figures scuttling to and fro before the house, which were plainly Dicky and Molly feeding the chickens and doing small chores to the best of their ability.
“See the children running out and in. Do you think Tom Ellis would let them do that if the poor mother had gone? Don’t you fret, Miss Doyne, I guess if the poor thing has lived so long she is going to get better,” he said, with the cheery optimism that was a part of his nature.
“Yes, please God, she is going to get better,” breathed Eunice; and Bertha was comforted in spite of her fears, for faith is somehow infectious, and one could not utterly despair in such company.
Tom was at the door to meet them when the wagon drew up at the house; such an unkempt, dishevelled figure he looked. “Where is the doctor?” he demanded, with fierce impatience, as his eye swept the little group in the wagon.
“On his way here by this time, if I know anything about Silas Ford and the ways of his cattle,” said Bill Humphries, as he leaped off the front of the wagon and held out his arms to lift Eunice down first. He reckoned that she was of the most use at this juncture, having had more experience in sickness than Bertha, so he put her in readiness for action first.