“Go ’way!” Elizabeth laughed. “Go on with you!” She hid her flaming face. “You didn’t ought t’ see me in bed!” she gasped. “Go ’way!”
“My child,” said Parson Lute, patiently, “turn your face this way.”
She would not. “Go ’way!” said she.
“This way!” Parson Lute repeated.
It had been a quiet, slow command, not to go unheeded. The five women of Whisper Cove stiffened with amazement. Here, indeed, was a masterful parson! Parson Stump had failed; but not this parson––not this parson, who could command in the name of the Lord! They exchanged glances––exchanged nudges. Elizabeth’s laughter ceased. All the women of Whisper Cove waited breathless. There was silence; the commotion was all outside––wind and rain and breakers, a far-off passion, apart from the poor comedy within. The only sound in the room was the wheezing of the girl on the bed. Elizabeth turned; her brows were drawn, her eyes angry. Aunt Esther All, from her place at the foot of the bed, heard the ominous wheeze of her breath and observed the labor of her heart; and she was concerned, and nudged William Buttle’s wife, who would not heed her.
“’Tis not good for her,” Aunt Esther whispered.
“You leave me be!” Elizabeth complained.
Parson Lute took her hand.
“You quit that!” said Elizabeth.