"Yes, I've come," said Dawn; "but we're not dead. What is the matter? Are you sick? I found the front door open, and no one around."
"They've all gone and left me," moaned the woman, beginning to turn her head with a strange, restless movement from side to side. "They rushed off like frightened cattle. You'll go, too, I suppose, when you know I've got the cholera. Yes, go quick. I don't want to do you any more harm than I have already. Oh!"
The sentence broke in a cry of agony, and the sick woman writhed in terrible contortions, which, passing, left her weak and almost lifeless. The girl's heart was filled with horror, but she took off her bonnet and cape and laid down her bundle.
"No, I'm not going to leave you," she said sadly, almost dully. "I'm not afraid, and, besides, it doesn't matter about me, any way. Have you had the doctor?"
The woman shook her head. The agony was not all passed.
"There wasn't any one to go for him," she murmured weakly, tossing restlessly again. "Oh, I'm so thirsty! Can you get me some water?"
"Where is Father?" asked Dawn, wondering if he too had deserted her.
"Didn't you know he was dead?" asked the sick woman, in that strangely hoarse voice.
"No," said Dawn, shuddering. Everybody seemed to be dying. Would she die, too?
She hurried to the old medicine closet and in a moment returned with the camphor bottle and some lumps of sugar, and administered several drops of camphor. The patient's hands were cold and blue. Dawn tucked her up with blankets warmly.