"She can be made very comfortable here," said Dr. Dabney. "Mrs.

Flippin is a famous housekeeper. And anyone who has ever slept in that east room in summer knows that there is nothing better."

Dalton ignored him. "What do you think?" He turned to the Washington doctor. "What do you think?"

"I think it best not to move her. We can send a nurse, and with Dr.

Dabney on the case, she will be in good hands."

"The only trouble is," said Dr. Dabney, unexpectedly, "that we may impose too much on Mrs. Flippins' hospitality."

"We will pay----" said Dalton with a touch of insolence.

From the doorway, Mr. Flippin answered him. "We don't want pay---- Neighbors don't ask for money when they--help out----"

There was a fine dignity about him. He was a rough farmer in overalls, but Dalton would never match the simple grace of his fine gesture of hospitality.

The Major, who had been silent, now spoke up. "You are having more than your share of trouble, Mr. Waterman. First your wife, and now your guest."

"Oh, I am, I am," said Oscar, brokenly. "I don't get what I've done to deserve it."

He was a pathetic figure. Whatever else he lacked, he loved his wife.

If she died--he felt that he could not bear it. For the first time in his life Oscar faced a situation in which money did not count. He could not buy off Death--all the money in the world would not hold back for one moment the shadow of the Dark Angel from his wife's door.

III

The window of the east room looked out on the old orchard. There was a screened door which opened upon a porch and a stretch of lawn beyond which was the dairy.

Within the room there was a wide white bed, and a mahogany dresser with a scarf with crocheted tr.i.m.m.i.n.g, above the dresser was an old steel engraving of Samson destroying the temple. The floor was spotless, a soft breeze shook the curtains. Madge, relieved from pain and propped on her pillows, watched a mother cat who with her kittens sat just outside the door.

She was a gray cat with white paws and breast, not fat at the moment but with a comfortable well-fed look. She alternately washed herself and washed her offspring. There were four of them, a rollicking lot not easy to keep in order.

"Aren't they--ripping?" Madge said to Mary.

"They always come up on the step about this time in the afternoon; they are waiting for the men to bring the milk to the dairy."

A little later Madge saw the men coming--two of them, with the foaming pails. The mother cat rose and went to meet them. Her tail was straight up and the kittens danced after her.

"They will get a big dish of it, and then they will go around to the kitchen door to wait for supper and the table sc.r.a.ps. And after that Bessie will coax the kittens out to the barn and go hunting for the night."

"Is that her name--Bessie?"

"Yes; there has always been a Bessie-cat here. And we cling to old customs."

"I like old customs," said Madge, "and old houses."

After a little she asked, "Who makes the b.u.t.ter?"

"I do. It's great fun."

"Oh, when I am well, may I help?"

"You----?" Mary came over and stood looking down at her; "of course you may help. But perhaps you wouldn't like it."

"I am sure I should. And I don't think I am going to get well very soon----"

Mary was solicitous. "Why not?"

"I don't want to get well. I want to stay here. I think this place is--heavenly."

Mary laughed. "It is just a plain farmhouse. If you want the show places you should go to Huntersfield and King's Crest----"

"I want just this. Do you know I am almost afraid to go to sleep for fear I shall wake up and find it a--dream----"

A little later, she asked, "Are those apples in the orchard ripe?"

"Yes."

"May I have one?"

"The doctor may not want you to have it," said her anxious nurse.

"Just to hold in my hand," begged Madge.

So Mary picked a golden apple, and when the doctor came after dark, he found the room in all the dimness of shaded lamplight, and the golden girl asleep with that golden globe in her hand.

Up-stairs the mulatto girl, Daisy, was putting Fiddle-dee-dee to sleep.

"You be good, and Daisy gwine tell you a story."

Fiddle liked songs better. "Sing 'Jack-Sam-bye.'"

Daisy, without her corsets and in disreputable slippers, settled herself to an hour of ease. She had the negro's love of the white child, and a sensuous appreciation of the pleasant twilight, the bed-time song, the rhythm of the rocking-chair.

"Well, you lissen," she said, and rocked in time to the tune.

Bye, oh, bye, little Jack-Sam, bye.

Bye, oh, bye, my baby, When you wake, you shall have a cake-- And all the pretty little horses--

Her voice was low and pleasant, with queer, quavering minor cadences.

But Fiddle-dee-dee was not sleepy.

"'Tory," she begged, when the song was ended.

So Daisy told the story of the three bears. Fiddle was too young to fully comprehend, but she liked the sound of Daisy's voice at the climaxes, "Who's been sittin' in _my_ chair?" and "Who's been sleepin'

in _my_ bed?" and "Who's been eatin' _my_ soup?" Daisy was dramatic or nothing, and she entered into the spirit of her tale. It was such an exciting performance altogether that Fiddle was wider awake than ever when the story was finished.

"'Ain' you evah gwine shut yo' eyes?"

"Daisy, sing," said Fiddle.