farm; and when she came back to Sally's room, and found her always with
the same placid smile, and fair untroubled face, and heard always the
same patient reply, "Very comfortable, thank you, dear Hetty," it never
occurred to her that any thing was wrong. It seemed strange to her that
the baby was so still, that he neither cried nor laughed like other
babies; and it seemed to her very hard for Sally to have to be shut up
in the house so long: but this was all; she was totally unprepared for
any thought of danger, and the shock was terrible to her, when the
thought came. It was on a sunny day in May, one of those incredible
summer days which New England sometimes flashes out like frost-set
jewels in her icy spring. Hetty had listened, as usual, to hear the
Doctor leave Sally's room: she was more than usually impatient to have
him go, for she was waiting to take in to Sally a big basket of arbutus
blossoms which old Caesar had gathered, and had brought to Hetty with a
characteristic speech.

"Seems's if the Lord meant 'em for baby's cheeks, don't it, Miss Hetty?
they're so rosy."

"Our poor little man's cheeks are not so pink yet," said Hetty, and as
she looked at the pearly pink bells nestling in their green leaves, she
sighed, and wished that the baby did not look so pale. "But he'll be all
right as soon as we can get him out of doors in the June sunshine," she
added, and turned from the dining-room into the hall, with the great
basket of arbutus in her hand. As she turned, she gave a cry, and
dropped her flowers: there sat Dr. Eben, in a big arm-chair, by the
doorway. He sprang to pick up the flowers. Hetty looked at him without
speaking. "I was waiting here to see you, Miss Gunn," he said, as he
gave back the flowers. "I am very sorry to be obliged to speak to you,"
--here Hetty's eyes twinkled, and a slight, almost imperceptible, but