The sick woman was better. Even Jim knew now that it was no momentary flare of the candle before it went out. Mrs. Darling was undeniably improving in health. She had sat up several times in bed, and had begun to talk of wrappers and slippers. She ate toast, eggs, and jellies, and hinted at chicken and beefsteak. She was weak, to be sure, but behind her, supporting and encouraging, there seemed to be a curious strength--a strength that sent a determined gleam to her eyes, and a grim tenseness to her lips.
At noon the sun came out, and the wind died into fitful gusts. The two men attacked the drifts with a will, and made a path to the gate. They even attempted to break out the road, and Herrick harnessed his horse and started for home; but he had not gone ten rods before he was forced to turn back.
“’T ain’t no use,” he grumbled. “I calc’late I’m booked here till the crack o’ doom!”
“An’ ter-morrer’s the fun’ral,” groaned Jim. “An’ I can’t git nowhere--nowhere ter tell ’em not ter come!”
“Well, it don’t look now as if anybody’d come--or go,” snapped the undertaker.
Saturday dawned fair and cold. Early in the morning the casket was moved from the parlor to the attic.
There had been sharp words at the breakfast table, Herrick declaring that he had made a sale, and refusing to take the casket back to town; hence the move to the attic; but in spite of their caution, the sick woman heard the commotion.
“What ye been cartin’ upstairs?” she asked in a mildly curious voice.
Ella was ready for her.
“A chair,” she explained smoothly; “the one that was broke in the front room, ye know.” And she did not think it was necessary to add that the chair was not all that had been moved. She winced and changed color, however, when her aunt observed: