"I thought so!" she said.
"Why, ye've brought the box 'thout the letters, Phœbe," said Rebecca. "You're not agoin' back for them, air ye?"
"No," Phœbe replied, "'twouldn't do any good. Rebecca. They aren't there."
She dropped the box in the grass and looked wistfully about her.
"Not there!" said Rebecca, nonplussed. "Why, who'd take 'em?"
"Nobody. They haven't been written yet."
"Not—not—" Rebecca gasped for a moment and then hurried toward the road. "Come on!" she cried.
Surely, she thought—surely they must find a doctor without delay.
But before they reached the road, Rebecca was glad to pause again and take advantage of a friendly bush from whose cover she might gaze without being herself observed.
The broad highway which but so short a time ago was quite deserted, was now occupied by a double line of bustling people—young and old—men, women, and children. Those travelling toward their left, to the north, were principally men and boys, although now and then a pair of loud-voiced girls passed northward with male companions. Those who were travelling southward were the younger ones, and often whole families together. Among these the women predominated.