They were approaching Poplar Spring, where a silver vein of a stream trickled over the flat grey rocks. The smell of wet leaves floated toward her, and instantly the quiet moment snapped in two as if a blow had divided it. Half of her mind was here, watching the meadow-larks skimming over the fields, and the other half crouched under the dripping boughs by the fork of the road. Only the imaginary half seemed more real, more physical even, than the actual one. Not her mind, she felt with horror, but her senses, her nerves, and the very corpuscles of her blood, remembered the agony.
"I think I'll go back," she said, turning quickly. "Ma might want me to help her."
"You look tired," he returned, with the consideration which Rose Emily had disciplined into a habit. "Would you like to sit down and rest?"
"No, I'd better go back."
They walked to the house in silence, and she scarcely heard him when he said, "Good night," at the porch.
"I hope you'll find your father better."
"Yes, I hope I'll find him better."
"If there's anything I can do, let me know."
"If there is, I'll let you know."
As he stepped into his buggy, he turned and called out, "I'll try to get word to the hands to-night, and send them over the first thing in the morning."