“What shall we do?” said poor Sue, wringing her hands. “What shall we do?”
“There’s only one thing to do,” said Fayette, desperately. “I shall go for the doctor.”
“O, Fayette! Walk all that way alone!”
“I shall ride Phœbe. I can saddle her myself. Father taught me how. I must go, Sue. I can’t let aunt lie here and die, and never try to save her. It’s hard to leave you alone, but it won’t take long. Baby hasn’t waked up once. What a mercy! Don’t say a word, Sue: I must go.”
“O, Fayette!” cried Sue, helplessly; but she made no further objection, and Mrs. Ford had not heard the hurried consultation.
Fayette would give herself no time to think. She was a nervous little thing, and she dreaded the long ride through the windy night more than she had ever feared anything in her life.
She was not a very daring rider, though at the little frontier post where she had passed two years with her parents, her father had taught her to manage a horse with reasonable skill, and she had ridden many a mile with him over the prairie.
“O, if father were here now!” she said, a sob suddenly rising.
Then she was doubtful about her own power to manage Phœbe, the great chestnut mare, the pride of her uncle’s heart, strong, swift, spirited creature that she was.
For two years Phœbe had borne away the prize at state and county fairs, and the horse-racing world had tempted her owner in vain. Fayette had mounted her more than once, and ridden around the yard, and up and down the road, but always with some secret fears. She had never dared even to try a canter; and now to mount at “mirk midnight,” and go, as fast as might be, off into the darkness alone on Phœbe’s back, seemed an awful thing to poor Fayette.