"Bill's went for the doctor," said a faint voice from the bed.
"How far has he gone?"
"There's none nearer than Weller."
"What!" Stephen gave a great start. Weller! Then he had veered far to the west! This was a place he knew. He looked back over his shoulder into the outer room and into the darkness beyond the door. He recalled the neighborhood, the roads, the ragged outlines of the ugly hills, the very house. Outside this gate he had sat in his father's buggy and waited and waited. He had heard his father's voice in the magic formula which he said at dying beds, "Credo in Deum Patrem omnipotentem"—it was here, he remembered distinctly, at a Roman Catholic bedside. No, he was dreaming, life did not present such strange coincidences. He saw that the agonized figure was relaxed; he heard himself asking, "Is there no doctor at Chestnut Ridge?"
"Not now. They had one after the other, but they didn't stay."
"When did your husband leave?"
"A half-hour ago, I guess. It seems longer. I guess the next spell'll finish me."
"Did he walk?"
"He thought perhaps he could get a ride. But there's three"—the sentence was taken up after a long pause—"three grog-shops."