Ben heard no more, for as Mrs. Paine turned to take down the tin horn he was up and away.
Several long and dismal toots sent Lita galloping through the grassy path as the sound of the trumpet excites a war-horse, and "father and Bijah," alarmed by the signal at that hour, leaned on their rakes to survey with wonder the distracted-looking little horseman approaching like a whirlwind.
"Guess likely grandpa's had 'nother stroke. Told 'em to send over soon's ever it come," said the farmer calmly.
"Shouldn't wonder ef suthing was afire some'r's," conjectured the hired man, surveying the horizon for a cloud of smoke.
Instead of advancing to meet the messenger, both stood like statues in blue overalls and red flannel shirts, till the boy arrived and told his tale.
"Sho, that's bad," said the farmer, anxiously.
"That brook always was the darndest place," added Bijah, then both men bestirred themselves helpfully, the former hurrying to Miss Celia while the latter brought up the cart and made a bed of hay to lay her on.
"Now then, boy, you go for the doctor. My women folks will see to the lady, and she'd better keep quiet up yender till we see what the matter is," said the farmer, when the pale girl was lifted in as carefully as four strong arms could do it. "Hold on," he added, as Ben made one leap to Lita's back. "You'll have to go to Berryville. Dr. Mills is a master hand for broken bones and old Dr. Babcock aint. 'Tisn't but about three mile from here to his house, and you'll fetch him 'fore there's any harm done waitin'."
"Don't kill Lita," called Miss Celia from the cart, as it began to move.
But Ben did not hear her, for he was off across the fields, riding as if life and death depended upon his speed.