“We heard your corn was worse than it is with us. What was there in that story, Aunt Mari, about the man who was paralyzed on a Sunday morning?”
“Par’lyzed, child? I don’t know as I just know what you mean.”
“But he lived real near here,” persisted Serene—“two miles south and three east of the station, they said. That would be just south of here. And we’ve heard a good deal about it. You must know, Aunt Mari.”
“Must be old man Burley’s sunstroke. That’s the only thing that’s happened, and there was some talk about that. He’s a Dunkard, you know, and they are mightily set on their church. Week ago Sunday was their day for love-feast, and it was a hundred an’ seven in the shade. He hadn’t been feelin’ well, and his wife she just begged him not to go out; but he said he guessed the Lord couldn’t make any weather too hot for him to go to church in. So he just hitched up and started, but he got a sunstroke before he was half-way there, and they had to turn round and bring him home again. He come to all right, but he ain’t well yet. Some folks thinks what he said ’bout the weather was pretty presumpshus, but I dunno. Seems if he might use some freedom of speech with the Lord if anybody could, for he’s been a profitable servant. A good man has some rights. I don’t hold with gossipin’ ’bout such things, and callin’ on ’em ‘visitations’ when they happen to better folks than me—why, Serene! what’s the matter?” in a shrill crescendo of alarm, for the heat, the journey, and the disappointment had been too much for the girl. Her head swam as she grasped the gist of her aunt’s story, and perceived that upon this simple foundation must have been built the lurid tale which had drawn her here, and for the first time in her healthy, unemotional life she quietly fainted away.
When she came to herself she was lying on the bed in Aunt Mari’s spare room. The spare room was under the western eaves, and there were feathers on the bed. Up the stairway from the kitchen floated the pervasive odor of frying ham. A circle of anxious people, whose presence made the stuffy room still stuffier, were eagerly watching her. Opening her languid eyes to these material discomforts of her situation, she closed them again. She felt very ill, and the only thing in her mind was the conviction that had overtaken her just as she fainted—“Then God is no nearer in Paulding than at home.”
As the result of closing her eyes seemed to be the deluging of her face with water until she choked, she decided to reopen them.
“Well,” said Aunt Mari, heartily, “that looks more like. How do you feel, Serene? Wasn’t it singular that you should go off so, just when I was tellin’ you ’bout ’Lishe Burley’s sunstroke? I declare, I was frightened when I looked around and saw you. Your uncle would bring you up here and put you on the bed, though I told him ’twas cooler in the settin’-room. But he seemed to think this was the thing to do.”
“I wish he’d take me down again,” said Serene, feebly and ungratefully, “and” (after deliberation) “put me in the spring-house.”
“What you need is somethin’ to eat,” said Aunt Mari with decision. “I’ll make you a cup of hot tea, and” (not heeding the gesture of dissent) “I don’t believe that ham’s cold yet.”
Serene had come to stay a week, and a week accordingly she stayed. The days were very long and very hot; the nights on the feather-bed under the eaves still longer and hotter. She had very little to say for herself, and thought still less. There is a form of despair which amounts to coma.