"No," said the woman, "he's not dead, his heart beats still."
"Go and call the missus, then, quick."
Then one of the men started for the farmhouse.
Mrs. Fisher was a gentle, kind-hearted woman at all times, especially to children, and just now she was particularly so, for a month had not elapsed since she had laid one of her own children, a boy of about Benny's age, in the silent grave. And when she caught sight of Benny's white suffering face, her heart went out to him instantly.
"Take him into the house, John," she said to her husband, the tears starting in her eyes, "and send for the doctor at once."
So without further ado Benny was carried into the house, stripped of his dirty and ragged attire, put into a warm bath, and then laid gently in a clean soft bed, in a cool pleasant room. Once only he opened his eyes, looked around him with a bewildered air, then relapsed again into unconsciousness.
The doctor, who arrived toward evening, pronounced it a very bad case, ordered port wine to be poured down his throat in small quantities during the night, and promised to call again next day.
"Will he live?" was Mrs. Fisher's anxious question.
"Fear not," said the doctor: "want, exposure, and I fear also sunstroke, have done their work. Whoever the little fellow belongs to, he's had a hard time of it, and to such death should not be unwelcome."
During the next day Benny was conscious at brief intervals, but he lay so perfectly still, with half-closed eyes, that they hardly knew at times whether he was alive or dead. His face was as white as the pillow on which he lay, and his breathing all but imperceptible. The doctor shook his head when he came, but held out no hope of recovery.