A thrill went over Phronsie, which she tried her best to conceal, and she turned quite pale. Polly smiled at her as she went over toward the door, followed by the doctor, old Mr. King and Ben. Pickering Dodge clenched his hand under the bedclothes, and looked after them, then steadfastly gazed at the large flowers blooming with reckless abandon up and down over the dark-green wall-paper.
"Phronsie," said Polly, hearing her footsteps joining the others out in the hall, "will you go in and see how Charlotte is getting on with Johnny? Do, dear," she whispered in Phronsie's ear, as she gained her side.
"I'd rather stay with you, Polly," said Phronsie wistfully, "and hold your other hand."
"But I do so want you to help Charlotte," said Polly beseechingly. "Will you, Phronsie?" and she set a kiss on Phronsie's pale cheek.
"I will, Polly," said Phronsie, with a sigh. But she looked back as she went slowly along to the opposite end of the hall. "Please don't hurt Polly," she said imploringly to the doctor.
"I won't, little girl," he replied, "any more than I can help."
"Good-by," called Polly cheerfully, and she threw her a kiss with her right hand.
* * * * *
Mrs. Farmer Higby stood on her flat door-stone, shading her eyes with her hand.
"Seems's if I sha'n't ever get over the shock," she said to herself, looking off to the railroad track, shining in the morning sunlight. "To look up from my sewing and see—la! and 'twas the first time I ever sat down to that rag-rug since I had to drop it and run over and take care of Simon, when they brought me word he was 'most cut to pieces in the mowing machine. My senses! I'm afraid to finish the thing."