"You just wait a minute, and I'll be ready to see her. Come,
Biddy-Biddy," she called, and waddling off, she gathered up a
handful of the wet corn meal.

"Oh, come now!" roared Joe, and seizing her hand, he pulled her
back toward the kitchen. "Dear Grandma Bascom, please come;
Dave's killed, I guess," and before she knew it, she was halfway
to the little brown house, and in a minute or two more there she
was before Davie lying on the pile of grain bags, and Polly
holding his hand, and fanning him with an old newspaper.

"He's all right," said Grandma, with a practised eye; "only just
fainted a bit. Now 'tisn't anything to what my son John's Abram
did one summer he spent with me. Used to tumble over most every
day."

"He fell," said Polly. She could say no more, but pointed up to
the beam. Then she found her voice. "The box of nails--I didn't
know 'twas up there, see!" and she pointed to them, where Joel
had tried to gather them up.

"He fell down from there?" asked Grandma, looking up at the beam.

Polly nodded, not trusting herself to speak. Joel wrung his
hands together, and stood quite still.

"In that case," said Grandma, "this boy must go for Dr. Fisher
just as soon as he can."

"Run, Joe, as hard as ever you can," gasped Polly.