"Henery" entered with a familiar looking bottle, closely followed by Mrs. Tyler.
"There ain't more'n a thimbleful left," he apologized holding it to the light. "My back's been kind of bad during the damp spell."
"Henery Tyler, it ain't rained a mite for six weeks," Mrs. Tyler snapped. I took the bottle from "Henery" and smelt the contents; it was a cheap whisky.
"Will you take a little, Helen?" I asked. "Just to pull you together."
"I don't think I need it, Ted, unless you tell me to take it." I started to hand it back to "Henery," but Mrs. Tyler was too quick for me. She snatched the bottle: "I'll just lock this away in the medicine closet, and when Henery's back troubles him again, he can have it along with one of my hot poultices."
"Henery" looked truly woeful; it was an awful price to ask a man to pay for a drink. As Helen finished the biscuit and milk we heard a carriage outside, and Mr. Claybourne came rushing in. He was greatly relieved at seeing Helen about to eat a large slice of apple pie instead of lying crippled, as he evidently expected.
"Well, Ted, what have you been doing to my little girl?" he asked, kissing Helen and shaking hands with me all in one move.
"It wasn't all Ted's fault," Helen smiled, her eyes shining. But Mr. Claybourne was too relieved and excited to notice anything.
"I'll arrange the cushions in the carriage, and you and I will carry her out, Ted," he shouted and dashed out again. Helen beckoned me to her.
"Don't say anything tonight, dear," she whispered. "I'm too tired to face mother. Come to Sunday dinner tomorrow," and she hugged my hand against her shoulder. "Let it be another of our secrets until then." I bent over her and kissed her hair. The Tylers were discreetly busy.