"I used to think she liked Benny," Mrs. Wickersham went on, speaking in a heated undertone. "I should think she'd be ashamed of herself."
Em's voice came back.
"I don't believe Ben cares, mother," she said soothingly.
"I don't care if he doesn't, she'd ought to," urged Mrs. Wickersham, with maternal logic.
There was a sound of strained, ineffectual coughing in the front room. Mrs. Wickersham left her work and hurried away. When she came back Em was sitting on the doorstep with her forehead in her hands.
"Benny's got a notion he could drive over to the store to-morrow," her mother began excitedly; "he's got something in his head. He thinks if Joe Atkinson would bring their low buggy—I'm sure I don't know what to say;" the poor woman's voice trembled with responsibility.
Em got up with a quick, decisive movement.
"Don't say anything, mother. If Ben wants to go, he's got to go. I'll run over to Atkinson's right away."
Mrs. Wickersham caught her daughter's arm.
"No, no; not to-night. He said in the morning, he must be better, don't you think so, Emmy?" she pleaded.