Rejoice Dale reassured him by a tender pressure of the hand, and a few soothing words. They had known each other ever since their pinafore days, these three people. He was younger than Miss Rejoice, and he had been deeply in love with her when he was an awkward boy of fifteen, and she a lovely seventeen-year-old girl. They had called him "doctor" at first in sport, when he came home to practise in his native village; but soon he had so fully shown his claim to the grave title that "the girls" and every one else had forgotten the fact that he had once been "Jack" to the whole village.
"Doctor," said the sick woman, "try not to think about it more than you can help! There are all the sick people looking to you as next to the hand of God; your path is clear before you."
Dr. Brown groaned. He wished his path were not so clear, that he might in some way make excuse to turn aside from it. "I will give Vesta a note to Dr. Anthony," he said, brightening a little at the thought. "He will do anything in his power to help us. There are other people, too, who will be kind. Yes, yes; we shall have plenty of help."
He fidgeted about the room, restless and uneasy, till Miss Vesta came in, in her bonnet and shawl. "I have no choice," he repeated doggedly, hugging his duty close, as if to dull the pressure of the pain within. "But how can you go alone, Vesta, my poor girl? You are not fit; you are trembling all over. God help us!" cried Dr. Brown, again.
For a moment the two strong ones stood irresolute, feeling themselves like little children in the grasp of a fate too big for them to grapple. The sick woman closed her eyes, and waited. God would help, in His good way. She knew no more, and no more was needed. There were a few moments of silence, as if all were waiting for something, they knew not what,—a sign, perhaps, that they were not forgotten, forsaken, on the sea of this great trouble.
Suddenly through the open window stole a breath of sound. Faint and far, it seemed at first only a note of the summer breeze, taking a deeper tone than its usual soft murmur. It deepened still; took form, rhythm; made itself a body of sound, sweet, piercing, thrilling on the ear. And at the sound of it, Vesta Dale fell away again into helpless weeping, like a frightened child; for it was the tune of "Rosin the Beau."
"Who shall tell him?" she moaned, covering her face with her hands, and rocking to and fro,—"oh, who shall tell him that the light of our life and his is gone out?"
CHAPTER VIII.
WAITING.
How did the time pass with the sick woman, waiting in the little chamber, listening day by day and hour by hour for the steps, the voices, which did not come? Miss Rejoice was very peaceful, very quiet,—too quiet, thought Mandy Loomis, the good neighbor who watched by her, fulfilling her little needs, and longing with a thirsty soul for a good dish of gossip. If Rejoice would only "open her mind!" it would be better for her, and such a relief to poor Mandy, unused to silent people who bore their troubles with a smile.