“Don’t, Ma,” he begged, “take on so. Hem!” He swallowed hard and smote one big hand across the other. “’Twouldn’t be so bad ef I c’d jest see David a-runnin’ in to pile wood. Land! how smart that boy works to try to take Joel’s place!”
“Don’t speak of Joel, Pa,” said Mrs. Blodgett in a muffled voice. “Mercy me, ef he sh’d die!”
“Joel ain’t a-goin’ to die,” declared Deacon Blodgett, stoutly, “don’t you think it, Ma.”
“I d’no,” Mrs. Blodgett shook her head till the apron flapped dismally. “No mortal man c’d do more’n Doctor Fisher. Do look down th’ road, Pa, an’ see ef his gig is comin’.”
“Dr. Fisher won’t leave the little brown house to-day till Joel’s better,” declared the Deacon, not moving; but his eyes roved anxiously up and down the thoroughfare.
“I wish you’d go over to Mis Pepper’s, an’ find out how Joel is,” Mrs. Blodgett’s voice came out in a thin little quaver from behind the apron.
The Deacon braced up firmer yet against the barn door. Then he said, “You better go yourself, Mother.”
“Mercy!” ejaculated his wife with a shiver, “I’m about sick as ’tis now, I couldn’t never face Mis Pepper—O dear me!”
“Neither can I—an’ all is, I’m goin’ to work.” Deacon Blodgett brought himself suddenly away from the barn door and strode off.
“Where you goin’, Pa?” Down fell Mrs. Blodgett’s apron from her head.