The window above was thrown open as he spoke; the father of the stricken household, altered in this one night, to a paralyzed, broken fatuous man, looked out in feeble despair.
“Good neighbors,” cried the old man, wringing his shriveled hands, “pray for my child—my Phœbe—my youngest-born! Oh, the Lord have mercy! I have sinned—I have sinned these seventy years—and now it has come!”
He was drawn in from behind. Edith saw Dorothy’s faded, thin face, stern and calm in the gravity of its despair, look down upon her for a moment; then there was a hasty motion of her hand, warning her away, and then the window was carefully closed.
“Ah, mother!” cried Mercy Rogers, rushing in breathlessly to her mother’s cottage; “it has come! it has come!”
“What has come, child?” said the dame, rising hastily, “and where hast thou left Mistress Edith—sweet lady—and what ails thee, that thou art so pale? Thou art not ill, Mercy? My child! my child! say not thou art sick!”
“Not yet, mother,” said Mercy, sadly, “and Mistress Edith is on the way, only I fled from her because I was frighted; for, oh, mother! it has come! the Plague! the terrible Plague!”
“The Lord have mercy upon us!” exclaimed Dame Rogers, pressing her hands upon her heart; “what shall we do? what shall we do?”
“Only be calm, and do not be afraid,” said Edith, entering the cottage, very grave, and very pale. “Know you, Dame Rogers, that this panic inviteth the pestilence? Sit down and be still; it is not near us yet, and surely we know, dame, that this plague hath no power to slay one more than those appointed of God.”
Dame Rogers sat down, overawed by the command, and Mercy turned away, ashamed and penitent, while Edith calmly shut the door, and sitting down, loosed her hood.
“And please you, lady, who is it?” asked Dame Rogers, humbly, as she endeavored in vain to conceal the quick and frightened coming of her breath.