e seemed nicely when he went to sleep, then woke up worse. So I felt us
had better not wait till morning."

"I'll be with you in five minutes."

Soon the Doctor appeared down a lane from the rear of the house. He was
leading his horse by the bridle.

"I'm better mounted than you," he said, "so I'll push forward. Every
minute saved is gained."

Will thanked him, and Doctor Parsons disappeared. When the father
reached home, it was to hear that his child was seriously ill, though
nothing of a final nature could be done to combat the sickness until it
assumed a more definite form.

"It's a grave case," said the physician, drearily in the dawn, as he
pulled on his gloves and discussed the matter with Will before
departing. "I'll be up again to-night. We mustn't overlook the
proverbial vitality of the young, but if you are wise you will school
your mind and your wife's to be resigned. You understand."

He stroked his peaked naval beard, shook his head, then mounted his
horse and was gone.

From that day forward life stood still at Newtake, in so far as it is
possible for life to do so, and a long-drawn weariness of many words
dragged dully of a hundred pages would be necessary to reflect that tale
of noctural terrors and daylight respites, of intermittent fears, of
nerve-shattering suspense, and of the ebb and flow of hope through a
fortnight of time. Overtaxed and overwrought, Phoebe ceased to be of
much service in the sick-room after a week without sleep; Will did all
that he could, which was little enough; but his mother took her place in
the house unquestioned at this juncture, and ruled under Doctor Parsons.
The struggle seemed to make her younger again, to rub off the
slow-gathering rust of age and charm up all her stores of sense and
energy.

So they battled for that young life. More than once a shriek from Phoebe
would echo to the farm that little Will was gone; and yet he lived; many
a time the child's father in his strength surveyed the perishing atom,
and prayed to take the burden, all too heavy for a baby's shoulders. In
one mood he supplicated, in another cursed Heaven for its cruelty.

There came a morning in early April when their physician, visiting
Newtake before noon, broke it to husband and wife that the child could
scarcely survive another day. He promised to return in the evening, and
left them to their despair. Mrs. Blanchard, however, refused to credit
this assurance, and cried to them to be