She was awakened by a hoarse whisper in her ear: "Get up and go on, get up and go on. Don't croak, don't croak!"
Her eyelids felt as heavy as lead, it seemed as if she would rather die than stir her sluggish limbs, yet she moved slightly as the rough whisper went on, "Get up and go on, get up and go on. Don't croak, don't croak!"
It was the parrot with the cold in her throat, and she was perched on the sofa cushion by her head. 'Tilda Jane raised herself on one hand. How weary, how unspeakably weary she was! If she could only lie down again—and what was the matter with her? Why had she waked with that terrible feeling of unhappiness?
She remembered now—Poacher was gone. She had not shed a tear over him before, but now she hid her face in her hands, and indulged in low and heart-broken lamentation. Poor Poacher—dear, handsome dog! She would never see him again. What would the Lucases say if they knew of his untimely end? What should she do without him? and she cried miserably, until the sound of voices in the next room recalled her to herself.
She was in the minister's house, and she must get her business over with, and be gone. So choking back her emotion, she wiped her face, smoothed her dress, and, followed by Gippie, stepped into the dining-room.
The minister was seated by the fire reading to his wife. He got up when he saw 'Tilda Jane, gave her a chair, then went on with his book. After some time he laid it down. His caller was composed now, and something told him that she was ready to consult him.
He smiled a beautiful, gentle smile at her, and thus encouraged, she swallowed the lump in her throat and began:
"I'm 'bliged to you, sir, for lettin' me sleep an' givin' me some breakfus, an' can I tell you somethin' 'bout myself? I'm all kind o' scatter-wise."
"And you wish some one to straighten you out?" he asked, benevolently.
"Yes, sir—an' I thought the best person would be a minister—they said you was the best here."