It was arranged that Aunt Susan should stay with the young mother, who was too weak to turn her head on the pillow it lay upon, for as the old doctor had said she was a desperately sick girl. They had but just kept her with them. The presence of Aunt Susan was almost as delightful to Elizabeth Hunter as the head of the child on her arm. Weak and exhausted, she was permitted such rest as she had not known in all the days of her married life. The darkened room and the quiet of the next three days were such a mercy to her tired nerves that she would have been glad to lie there for ages. Doctor Morgan let Susan Hornby return to her home and husband at the end of the week, confident that with care, Hepsie could perform the little offices required, but he was to learn that country people have little judgment in serious cases of illness, and that the young mother's room would be filled with company when he came out the next day.

Mr. and Mrs. Crane were the first to arrive on Sunday morning, and when John announced that they were driving up to the hitching post, Elizabeth begged weakly for him to say that she was too ill to see any one that day.

John would have been glad to deliver that message, remembering the wedding day, but Sadie was with her mother, and John had found Luther a convenient neighbour of late.

"We can't offend them," he said.

"But I can't have them. Please, John--with my head aching already."

"Don't speak so loud," John said warningly.

Mrs. Farnshaw came and had to have her team tied to the barnyard fence.

She walked to the house with the rest of the company, and even in their presence could not restrain her complaints because she had not been notified of her daughter's serious illness and the arrival of the child.

Elizabeth's protest that they had been absorbed by that illness, and too busy to think of anything but the most urgent and immediate duties, did not quiet the objections, for Mrs. Farnshaw had the habit of weak insistence. Her mother's whine was never so hard to bear.

"Where's Mr. Farnshaw?" Mr. Crane asked. "He's grandpa now."

Elizabeth shrank into her pillows, and Mrs. Farnshaw bridled angrily.

"He's busy," was her tart reply.

"I should think he'd want t' see his grandson. Lizzie, you haven't showed me that boy," Mr. Crane insisted.

And Elizabeth, weak and worn, had to draw the sleeping child from under the quilts at her side and show him off as if he had been a roll of b.u.t.ter at a country fair, while constant reference was made to one phase or another of the unpleasant things in her experience. Her colour deepened and her head thumped more and more violently, and by noon when they trooped out to the dining room, where Hepsie had a good dinner waiting, the girl-wife was worn out. She could not eat the food brought to her, but drank constantly, and was unable to get a s.n.a.t.c.h of sleep before the visitors a.s.sembled about her bed again.

At four o'clock Doctor Morgan arrived and Luther Hansen came for Sadie.

Sadie saw him drive in, and laughed unpleasantly.

"Luther wasn't a bit for comin', but I told him I'd come over with ma, an'

he could come after me. He's always chicken-hearted, an' said since Lizzie was so sick we oughtn't t' come. I don't see as you're s' sick, Lizzie; you've got lots of good colour in your face, an' th' way you pull that baby around don't look much like you was goin' t' kick the bucket just yet."

Elizabeth made no reply, but watched John help Doctor Morgan tie his team.

"How's Mrs. Hunter?" Doctor Morgan asked John as he came around to the gate after the horses were fastened.

"All right, I guess. She's had a good deal of company to-day. I didn't want them, but you can't offend people."

"We usually have a good deal of company at a funeral," the old doctor said dryly, as he viewed the extra horses and wagons about the fence.

When he entered the sickroom his face hardened.

"I'm not as much afraid of your neighbours as you are, Mr. Hunter," he said, and went to the middle door and beckoned Luther to come with him into the yard. A few words was all that was needed with Luther Hansen, and the doctor returned to his patient.

Sadie was more sarcastic than usual as they drove home.

"I wouldn't 'a' come if I'd a known I wasn't wanted," she remarked sulkily.

"But, Sadie, Doc Morgan says she's worse! I'd turn 'em out quick enough if it was you."

Poor little Sadie Hansen caught the spirit of the remark. Nothing like it had ever before been offered her in all her bitter, sensitive experience.

She looked up at her husband mollified, and let even Elizabeth have a season of rest as she considered this astonishing thing which marriage had brought to her.

Susan Hornby, who had thought her darling resting on this quiet Sabbath day, was reestablished at the bedside, and it was not till the morning of the tenth day that she again left the house. At the end of that time she was dismissed reluctantly by the good old doctor himself. It had been such a good excuse to be with Elizabeth that Aunt Susan had persuaded the long-suffering Nathan that her presence beside her was a thing not to be denied, and Nathan, glad to see Sue so happy, ate many a cold meal that haying season and did not complain. It was a great event in Susan Hornby's life. Gentle and cordial to all, Susan Hornby lived much alone--alone most of all when surrounded with her neighbours. Elizabeth was her only real tie.

"Oh, child! I'm so glad you've got him," she said one day as she laid the beautiful brown head on Elizabeth's arm.

Elizabeth patted the hand that was drawing the little white shawl over the baby's head. Master John Hunter--the babe had been named for its father--had had his daily bath, and robed in fresh garments, and being well fed and housed in the snuggest of all quarters, the little triangle made by a mother's arm, settled himself for his daily nap, while the two women watched him with the eyes of affection. Never again do we so nearly attain perfect peace in this turbulent life as during those first few weeks when the untroubled serenity of human existence is infringed upon by nothing but a desire for nourishment, which is conveniently present, to be had at the first asking, and which there is such a heaven of delight in obtaining. We are told that we can only enter the Kingdom of Heaven by becoming as little children: no other Kingdom of Heaven is adequate after that.

The life in this little room had taken Susan Hornby back to her own youth, and as often as otherwise when Master John was being put through his daily ablutions it was the little Katie of long ago that she bathed and robed fresh and clean for the morning nap. At other times Elizabeth was her Katie grown older. It was the flowering time of Susan Hornby's life. The fact that Elizabeth had never crossed her threshold since her marriage to John Hunter had faded out of Aunt Susan's mind. Elizabeth's every word and look spoke the affection she felt for her. Other people might sneer and doubt, but Susan Hornby accepted what her instincts told her was genuine.

Elizabeth got about the house slowly. The days in bed had been made tolerable by the presence of those she loved, but she was far from strong, and she looked forward with reluctance to the time when Aunt Susan would not be with her. John complained of Hepsie's work only when with his wife alone, for Aunt Susan had been so constant in her praises that he would not start a discussion which he had found he brought out by such criticism.

Susan Hornby looked on, and was as much puzzled as ever about the relations of the young couple. Elizabeth was evidently anxious about John's opinions, but she never by so much as a word indicated that they differed from hers. She spoke of him with all the glow of her early love; she pointed out his helpfulness as if he were the only man in the world who looked after the kitchen affairs with such exact.i.tude; she would have the baby named for no one else, and all her life and thought centred around him in so evident a manner that Aunt Susan could not but feel that she was the happiest of wives. She talked of her ideals of harmony, of her thankfulness for the example of the older woman's life with her husband, of her desire to pattern after that example, of everything that was good and hopeful in her life, with so much enthusiasm as to completely convince her friend that she had found a fitting abiding place. And, indeed, Elizabeth believed all that she said. Each mistake of their married life together had been put away as a mistake. Each day she began in firm faith in the possibility of bringing about necessary changes. If she failed, she was certain in her own mind that the failure had been due to some weakness of her own. Never did man have a more patient, trusting wife than John Hunter. There had been much company about the house of late, and there had been no difficulties. Elizabeth was not yet a.n.a.lytical enough to reason out that because of the presence of that company far less demand had been made upon her by her husband. She thought that they were really getting on better than they had done, and told herself happily that it must be because she was more rested than she had been and was therefore not so annoyed by small things. It was ever Elizabeth's way to look for blame in herself. The baby was a great source of pleasure also. He was a good child and slept in the most healthy fashion, though beginning now when awake to look about him a little and try to a.s.sociate himself with his surroundings. Elizabeth had begun to look forward to Silas's first visit with the child. Silas had quaint ways with the young, and it was with very real pleasure that she dragged herself to the door and admitted him the first week she was out of bed. Elizabeth led the old man to the lounge on tiptoe.

"I want you to see him, Mr. Chamberlain; you and he are to be great friends," she said as she went down on her knees and drew the white shawl reverently from the sleeping face. "Isn't he a fine, big fellow?" she asked, looking up at the old man.

"'E ought t' be, havin' you for his mother," Silas said with an attempt at being witty, and looking at the baby shyly.

The baby roused a little, and stretched and grunted, baby fashion.

"Lordie! what good sleep they do have!" Silas said, holding out his finger to the little red hand extended toward him, and then withdrawing it suddenly. "Now, Liza Ann sleeps just like that t' this day." He spoke hesitatingly, as if searching for a topic of conversation. "She does 'er work regular like, an' she sleeps as regular as she works. I often think what a satisfyin' sort of life she leads, anyhow. She tends t' 'er own business an' she don't tend t' n.o.body else's, an'--an'--she ain't got no more on 'er mind 'n that there baby."

Elizabeth gathered the child into her arms and seated herself in a rocking chair, while the old man sat stiffly down on the edge of the lounge and continued:

"Now I ain't that way, you know. I have a most uncomfortable way of gettin' mixed up in th' affairs of others."

"But it's always a friendly interest," Elizabeth interposed, mystified by his curious manner and rambling conversation.

Silas crossed his knees and, clasping his hands about the uppermost one, rocked back and forth on the edge of the lounge.

"Most allus," he admitted, "but not quite. Now I'm fair ready t' fight that new Mis Hansen. I've been right fond of Luther, for th' short time I've knowed 'im, but what he see in that there Sadie Crane's beyond me.

_He's_ square. He looks you in th' face 's open 's day when he talks t'

you, an' you know th' ain't no lawyer's tricks in th' wordin' of it. But she's different. They was over t' our house Sunday 'fore last an' I never knowed Liza Ann t' be's near explodin' 's she was 'fore they left. It done me right smart good t' see 'er brace up an' defend 'erself. I tell you Mis Hansen see she'd riled a hornet 'fore she got away. Liza Ann 'll take an'

take, till you hit 'er just right, an' then--oh, my!"

Silas ended with a chuckle.

"After they left, she just told me I could exchange works with somebody else; she wasn't goin' t' have that woman comin' t' our house no more."

"Sadie is awfully provoking," Elizabeth admitted, "but--but--Luther likes her, and Luther is a good judge of people, I always thought."

"Yep," Silas admitted in return, "an' I don't understand it. Anyhow, I never knew Liza Ann come s' near forgettin' 'erself. It was worth a day's travel t' see."

They talked of other things, the baby dropped asleep in its mother's arms, and Silas took his departure.