"If you've got anything to say—say it," snapped Mr. George, impatiently.
"Mr. Flint—" Alick began, but Mr. George interrupted him.
"Not dead!" he exclaimed, as he turned toward the undertaker, and a look of dread spread over his face.
"No," replied Alick, slowly, "at least he wa'n't the last I heard, but—"
"Out with it, tell me!" demanded Mr. George.
"He's got the smallpox," said Alick, quietly.
Mr. George was wholly unprepared for the shock. His nerves had been so seriously irritated of late, that the distressing news concerning his beloved pastor almost unmanned him. Without giving his victim time to recover, Alick continued: "But that ain't the best part of it."
"The best part of it!" repeated Mr. George, in amazement. "What do you mean by that?"
"I mean," said Alick, gleefully, "that they couldn't get anybody to take care of him until Miss Barbara Wallace came along, and, without being asked, took her life in her hands and stepped in where nobody else dared to go."
If Alick had struck him in the face, Mr. George could not have been more surprised. "You see," Alick went on, "there's somethin' good about her, after all."