Helena waited for no more. She raced to the cottage and around to the
front. A wagon was standing before the porch; the negro porter on the
seat.

"What is it, Sam?" she called anxiously, as she came up. "Is Mrs.
Thornton seriously ill?"

"Yas--yas'um, miss," Sam answered excitedly. "I done feel in mah bones
she's gwine to die. Miss Harvey she done tole me to get a team an' drive
foh you-all like de debbil."

Without waste of words, Helena clambered in beside him.

"Then drive," she said shortly. "Drive as fast as you can."

At first, as they drove along, Helena plied Sam with questions--and then
lapsed into silence. The man did not know very much--only that Mrs.
Thornton had been taken suddenly ill, and that the nurse had sent him on
the errand that had brought him to the cottage. A turmoil of conflicting
emotions filled Helena's mind, obtruding upon her anxiety, for she had
grown to care a great deal for Naida Thornton--this was a complication
that Doc Madison must know about--Thornton had left that morning and was
already far away--the newspaper men, or some of them at least, were
still in the town--and there were so many things else--they all came
crowding upon her, as she clung to her seat in the jolting wagon. But
Doc must know--that rose a paramount consideration. It seemed an age, an
eternity before they stopped finally at the station.

She sprang out and turned to Sam.