Barbara's work had taken her into all of the rooms in the house in search of one thing or another. The first day she had opened the door of his room—Will's. She had only taken a step when she discovered whose room it was, and knew that what she was looking for would not be found there. She could not resist the temptation, however, to glance about the room. There were his books, and his fishing-rods and tackle; his shotgun stood in a corner, and near a window was an old-fashioned writing-table. It was a boy's room—his room. Barbara feasted her eyes for a moment, and then, remembering her patient, stepped back into the hall, and softly closed the door.
Hanging on the wall, opposite the foot of Mr. Flint's bed, in an oval frame of black walnut, was a photograph of Will. The picture was a likeness of a sturdy little chap of three, with large, staring eyes, fat cheeks, and long curls. Barbara looked at it often; Mr. Flint, too, often looked at the picture, but only when Barbara was not in the room,—while she was there his eyes followed her constantly. There was something about her, and what she was doing for him, that he, in his condition, could not understand. They talked but little. Once Mr. Flint began to speak of his notorious sermon, but Barbara quickly stopped him.
Sam Billings had been hired by the board of health to maintain quarantine on the parsonage, though the fear of the people of Manville made it almost unnecessary except for the sake of appearances. The weather was mild, and when not engaged in a noisy conversation with some one across the road, Sam sat on the steps, or paced the path to the gate. Through Sam and Doctor Jones was the only means Barbara had of communicating with the world, but just then she had little use for the world or many in it. Sam afforded her some amusement, however, when she went to the door for a breath of fresh air.
"I tell you, Miss Wallace," he said, one morning, "folks have changed their minds about you."
"That is a right we all have," Barbara smilingly replied.
"They all think that you're a heroine now."
"I am sure of one good friend in you, Mr. Billings." The "Mr." pleased Sam greatly—it was seldom used as a prefix to his name.
"You're jest right about that," Sam grinned. He liked Barbara and her smile immensely. When she had gone in and closed the door he reflected that, if he were younger, and knew more, and had a steady job, and Billy Flint was not in love with her and she with him, why, he would put his best foot forward.
"Has any word come from Will?" Mr. Flint asked, on the afternoon of the second day.
"No," Barbara replied; "but I know that we shall hear to-day."