had asked me, I'd have said it was took for you yesterday. Why, Mis' Field, what's the matter?”

“There ain't anything the matter.”

“Why, you look dreadfully.”

Mrs. Field's face was pale, and there was a curious look about her whole figure. It seemed as if shrinking from something, twisting itself rigidly, as a fossil tree might shrink in a wind that could move it.

“I feel well 'nough,” said she. “I guess it's the light.”

“Well, mebbe 'tis,” replied Amanda, still looking anxiously at her. “Of course you know if you feel well, but you do look dreadful white to me. Don't you want some water, or a swaller of cold tea?”

“No, I don't want a single thing; I'm well enough.” Mrs. Field's tone was almost surly. She held out her hand for the photograph. “I must be goin',” she continued; “I ain't got my dustin' done. I jest come across this, an' I thought I'd show it to you, an' see what you said.”

“Well, I shouldn't have dreamed but what it was yours; but then you an' your sister did look jest alike. I never could tell you apart when you first came here.”

“Folks always said we looked alike. We always used to be took for each other when we was girls, an' I think we looked full as much alike after our hair begun to turn. Mine was a little lighter than hers, an' that made some difference betwixt us before. It didn't show when we was both gray.”

“I shouldn't have thought 'twould. Well, I must say, I shouldn't dream but what that picture was meant for you.”

Mrs. Field took her way out of the room.

“How's Lois this mornin'?” Amanda called after her.

“About the same, I guess.”

“I saw her goin' out of the yard this mornin', an' I thought she walked dreadful weak.”

“I guess she don't walk any too strong.”

When Mrs. Field was in her own room she stowed away the photograph in the shell box; then she got a little broom and brushed the shell-work carefully; she thought it looked dusty in spite of her rubbing.

When the dusting was done it was time for her to get her dinner ready. Indeed, there was not much leisure for Mrs. Field all day. She seldom sat down for long at a time. From morning until night she kept up her stiff resolute march about her house.

At half-past twelve she had the dinner on the table, but Lois did not come. Her mother went into the sitting-room, sat down beside a window, and watched. The town clock struck one. Mrs. Field went outdoors and stood by the front gate, looking down the road. She saw a girl coming in the distance with a flutter of light skirts, and she exclaimed with gladness, “There she is!” The girl drew nearer, and she saw it was Ida Starr in a dress that looked like Lois'.

The girl stopped when she saw Mrs. Field at the gate. “Good-morning,” said she.

“Good-mornin', Ida.”

“It's a beautiful day.”

Mrs. Field did not reply; she gazed past her down the road, her face all one pale frown.

The girl looked curiously at her. “I hope Lois is pretty well this morning?” she said, in her amiable voice.

Mrs. Field responded with a harsh outburst that fairly made her start back.

“No,” she cried out, “she ain't well; she's sick. She wa'n't fit to go to school. She couldn't hardly crawl out of the yard. She ain't got home, an' I'm terrible worried. I dun'no' but she's fell down.”

“Maybe she just thought she wouldn't come home.”

“No; that ain't it. She never did such a thing as that without saying something about it; she'd know I'd worry.”

Mrs. Field craned her neck farther over the gate, and peered down the road. Beside the gate stood two tall bushes, all white with flowers that grew in long white racemes, and they framed her distressed face.

“Look here, Mrs. Field,” said the girl, “I'll tell you what I'll do. The school-house isn't much beyond my house; I'll just run over there and see if there's anything the matter; then I'll come back right off, and let you know.”

“Oh, will you?”

“Of course I will. Now don't you worry, Mrs. Field; I don't believe it's anything.”

The girl nodded back at her with her pretty smile; then she sped away with a light tilting motion. Mrs. Field stood a few minutes longer, then she went up the steps into the house. She opened Amanda Pratt's door instead of her own, and went through the sitting-room to the kitchen, from whence she could hear the clink of dishes.

“Lois ain't got home yet,” said she, standing in the doorway.

Amanda set down the dish she was wiping. “Mis' Field, what do you mean?”

“What I say.”

“Ain't she got home yet?”

“No, she ain't.”

“Why, it's half-past one o'clock! She ain't comin'; it's time for school to begin. Look here, Mis' Field, I guess she felt kind of tired, an' thought she wouldn't come.”

Mrs. Field shook her head with a sort of remorselessness toward all comfort. “She's fell down.”

“Oh, Mis' Field! you don't s'pose so?”

“The Starr girl's gone to find out.”

Mrs. Field turned to go.

“Hadn't you better stay here till she comes?” asked Amanda, anxiously.

“No; I must go home.” Suddenly Mrs. Field looked fiercely around. “I'll tell you what 'tis, Mandy Pratt, an' you mark my words! I ain't goin' to stan' this kind of work much longer! I ain't goin' to see all the child I've got in the world murdered; for that's what it is—it's murder!”

Mrs. Field went through the sitting-room with a stiff rush, and Amanda followed her.

“Oh, Mis' Field, don't take on so—don't!” she kept saying.

Mrs. Field went through the house into her own kitchen. The little white-laid table stood against the wall; the tea-kettle steamed and rocked on the stove; the room was full of savory odors. Mrs. Field set the tea-kettle back where it would not boil so hard. These little household duties had become to her almost as involuntary as the tick of her own pulses. No matter what hours of agony they told off, the pulses ticked; and in every stress of life she would set the tea-kettle back if it were necessary. Amanda stood in the door, trembling. All at once there was a swift roll of wheels in the yard past the window. “Somebody's come!” gasped Amanda. Mrs. Field rushed to the back door, and Amanda after her. There was a buggy drawn up close to the step, and a man was trying to lift Lois out.

Mrs. Field burst out in a great wail. “Oh, Lois! Lois! She's dead—she's dead!”

“No, she ain't dead,” replied the man, in a drawling, jocular tone. “She's worth a dozen dead ones—ain't you, Lois? I found her layin' down side of the road kind of tuckered out, that's all, and I thought I'd give her a lift. Don't you be scared, Mis' Field. Now, Lois, you jest rest all your heft on me.”

Lois' pale face and little reaching hands appeared around the wing of the buggy. Amanda ran around to the horse's head. He did not offer to start; but she stood there, and said, “Whoa, whoa,” over and over, in a pleading, nervous voice. She was afraid to touch the bridle; she had a great terror of horses.

The man, who was Ida Starr's father, lifted Lois out, and carried her into the house. She struggled a little.

“I can walk,” said she, in a weakly indignant voice.

Mr. Starr carried her into the sitting-room and laid her down on the sofa. She raised herself immediately, and sat up with a defiant air.

“Oh, dear child, do lay down,” sobbed her mother.

She put her hand on Lois' shoulder and tried to force her gently backward, but the girl resisted.

“Don't, mother,” said she. “I don't want to lie down.”

Amanda had run into her own room for the camphor bottle. Now she leaned over Lois and put it to her nose. “Jest smell of this a little,” she said. Lois pushed it away feebly.

“I guess Lois will have to take a little vacation,” said Mr. Starr. “I guess I