Brown did not wait to hear more. He strode to the house, with Mr. Stover at his heels. On his way he caught a glimpse of the buggy, the horse dozing between the shafts. On the seat of the buggy were two women, one plump and round-faced, the other thin and gaunt.
Mr. Stover panted behind him.
“Say, Mr. Brown,” he whispered, as they entered the kitchen; “don't tell my wife nor Sophi about Seth's bein' sick. Better not say a word to them about it.”
The tone in which this was spoken made the substitute assistant curious.
“Why not?” he asked.
“'Cause—well, 'cause Hannah's hobby is sick folks, as you might say. If there's a cat in the neighborhood that's ailin' she's always dosin' of it up and fixin' medicine for it, and the like of that. And Sophi's one of them 'New Thoughters' and don't believe anybody's got any right to be sick. The two of 'em ain't done nothin' but argue and row over diseases and imagination and medicines ever since Sophi got here. If they knew Seth was laid up, I honestly believe they'd drop picnic and everythin' and start fightin' over whether he was really sick or just thought he was. And I sort of figgered on havin' a quiet day off.”
Brown found the lightkeeper stretched on the bed in his room. He was dressed, with the exception of coat and boots, and when the young man entered he groaned feebly.
“What's the matter?” demanded the alarmed helper.
“Oh, my!” groaned Seth. “Oh, my!”
“Are you in pain? What is it? Shall I 'phone for the doctor?”