A man in his shirt-sleeves, who was writing at the desk, turned and looked at her. It was the same man who had prevented the runaway. He began to smile, but the girl's stricken face stopped him.
"Dr. Patterson has gone to the tin-mine," he said, getting up and coming forward; "he will not be home till to-morrow."
Idy grasped the casing so tightly that her knuckles shone white and polished.
"My fawther's got a hem'ridge," she said, swallowing after the words. "I don't know what on earth to do."
"A hemorrhage!" said the young man with kindly sympathy. "Well, now, don't be too much alarmed, Miss—"
"Starkweather," quavered Idy.
"Starkweather? Oh, it's Mr. Starkweather. Why, he's a friend of mine. And so you're his daughter. Well, you mustn't be too much alarmed. I've had a great many hemorrhages myself, and I'm good for twenty years yet." He had taken his coat from a nail at the back of the room, and was putting it on hurriedly. "Prop him up in bed, and don't let him talk, and give him a spoonful of salt-and-water now and then. My horse is standing outside, and I'll go right down to Maravilla and fetch a doctor. I'll come up on the other side of the lake, and get there almost as soon as you do—let me help you into your buggy. And drive right on home, and don't worry."
He had put on his hat, and they stood on the sidewalk together.
Idy made a little impulsive stoop toward him, as if she would have taken him in her arms.
"Oh!" she gasped, her eyes swimming, and her chin working painfully; "I just think you're the very best man I ever saw in all my life!"