She looked eagerly at the young doctor; but his eyes were fixed on the window, and he scarcely seemed to hear her. Following his gaze, she saw a white dress glimmering against the soft dusk of the garden shrubs.
The young doctor rose abruptly; took one step; paused, and turned to his guest of ninety years with a little passionate gesture of appeal "I—cannot leave you," he said; "unless—just one moment—"
"My goodness gracious me!" cried Mrs. Tree. "Go this minute, child; run, do you hear? I'll take care of Ithuriel Butters. He was in my Sunday-school class, though he's only five years younger than me. Take care and don't fall!"
The last words were uttered in a small shriek, for apparently there had been but one step to the staircase.
Breathless, the old woman turned and faced the old man. "Have you got any bumblebees in your pocket this time, Ithuriel?" she asked.
"No,'m," said Ithuriel, soberly. Then they both stared out of the window with eyes that strove to be as young as they were eager.
[Illustration: "Then he comes, full chisel!" cried Ithuriel Butters.]
"There he comes, full chisel!" cried Ithuriel Butters. "She don't see him. He's hollerin' to her. She's turned round. I tell ye—he's grabbed holt of her hand! he's grabbed holt of both her hands! he's—"
Who says that heroism dies with youth? Marcia Tree raised her little mitted hand, and pulled down the blind.
"It's no business of yours or mine what he's doing, Ithuriel Butters!" she said, with dignity.