"It's not contagious. The danger is all to the one who has it. What does the doctor say?"
"The doctor? We ain't had him. We don't need him. What can he do?"
"A great deal. He might tell you what Isita should have to eat. Perhaps then you needn't kill her lambs."
"Why not kill them?" The woman turned almost violently. "We ain't a thing to eat else. You kin see the truck patch is dead dry. There ain't no grain to feed the chickens, no hay for the stock. We might's well quit this God-forsaken desert. A man can't make nothin' here; the frost or the drought'll catch him every time."
In the hoarse, whispered outburst there was a strangled sob that sent a thrill down Harry's spine. As she stared into those sunken eyes in which shone suddenly the flame of unendurable miseries, she felt that this strange woman needed pity more than blame.
"Listen, Mrs. Biane," she said with gentle determination; "you must have the doctor. I've already sent for him. It shan't cost you a cent. I had to do it for Isita. People sometimes die of spotted fever, and I couldn't—I'm too fond of her—she's terribly sick. Just listen."
For the voice had suddenly risen to a cry: "Not that one, Joe! Not that one! No—no!"
"She hears you. She's frightened. You'd best go on." Mrs. Biane turned hurriedly to the bed. "Wake up, Isita," she said and laid her hand on her daughter's shoulder.
"Oh, don't do that! You don't want her to die, do you?" Harry exclaimed, hardly knowing what she said.
"She might almost as well—better, too, I guess."