“What are we going to do?” asked Ollie, suddenly afraid.
“I’ll go after the doctor, but he can’t help him any,” said Joe. “I’ll wake up the Greenings as I go by and send some of them over to stay with you.”
“Don’t leave me here with it–don’t leave me!” begged Ollie. “I can’t stay here in the house with it alone!”
She shrank away from her husband’s body, unlovely in death as he had been unloved in life, and clung to Joe’s arm.
But a little while had passed since Isom fell–perhaps not yet five minutes–but someone had heard the shot, someone was coming, running, along the hard path between gate and kitchen door. Ollie started.
“Listen!” she said. “They’re coming! What will you say?”
“Go upstairs,” he commanded, pushing her toward the door, harshness in his manner and words. “It’ll not do for you to be found here all dressed up that way.”
“What will you tell them–what will you say?” she insisted, whispering.
“Go upstairs; let me do the talking,” he answered, waving her away.
A heavy foot struck the porch, a heavy hand beat a summons on the door. Ollie’s white dress gleamed a moment in the dark passage leading to the stairs, the flying end of her veil glimmered.