t's his old
trouble that's going to kill him when he does die instead of anything
else."

"Has he spoken yet?" asked Elvira, eagerly.

"No, he ain't; but there's none so still as them that won't speak."
Margaret Bean nodded shrewdly at Elvira. Her voice was weak and
hoarse as if from a cold or much calling, but there was sharp
emphasis in it. She gave a curious impression of spirit subdued and
tearfully rasped, like her face, yet never lacking.

"You--think he--could?" whispered Elvira Gordon.

"'Tain't for me to say," replied Margaret Bean. "He lays there--looks
most as if he was dead." She wiped her eyes hard, with a
handkerchief so stiff that it looked on that cold morning frozen as
with old tears. Margaret Bean was famous for her fine starching in
the village; it was her chief domestic talent, and she was faithful
in its application in all possible directions.

"I wish he would speak if he could," said Mrs. Gordon.

"I do, if it's for the best," returned Margaret Bean. She hesitated;
there were red rings around her tearful eyes, like a bird's. "I can't
believe your son did it, nohow, Mis' Gordon," said she.

"I hope if my son is innocent he will be proved so," returned Elvira
Gordon. She was too proudly just herself not to use the word _if_,
and yet she could have slain the other woman for the sly doubt and
pity in her tone.

"It's harder for you than 'tis for him, layin' there," said Margaret
Bean, nodding towards the house. There was an odd gratulation of pity
in her tone. She rubbed her eyes again.

"We all have our own burdens," replied Elvira, with a dignified
motion, as if she straightened herself under hers. "I hope he will be
able to speak--soon."

"I hope so, if it's for the best," said Margaret Bean.

Chapter XIII

Elvira Gordon had gone home hoping that Lot might yet speak. She had
heard his rattling cough as she picked her way out of the icy yard,
and Madelon also heard it when she entered it. She knocked at the
side door, and Margaret Bean opened it. She had a gruel cup in her
hand.

"I want to see him," said Madelon.

Margaret Bean looked at her. Her starched calico apron flared out
widely over her lank knees across the doorway.

"I'm afraid he ain't able to see nobody this morning," said she, and
the asperity in her tone was less veiled than usual. Her voice was
not so hoarse. She was mindful of this girl's former conduct at her
master's bedside, and herself half believed