"I'll never get my strength back," he protested, "unless I have more
exercise."

It was a cold, gray November day. A few flakes of snow were falling when
he started.

"I'll stop and rest at the Tylers'," he called back, "so don't be uneasy
if I'm out some time."

After he left the post-office the fresh air tempted him to go farther
than he had intended. At a long distance from his home his strength
seemed suddenly to desert him. The snow began to fall in earnest. Numb
with cold, he groped his way back to the house, almost fainting from
exhaustion.

Lloyd was blowing soap-bubbles when she saw him come in and fall heavily
across the couch. The ghastly pallor of his face and his closed eyes
frightened her so that she dropped the little clay pipe she was using.
As she stooped to pick up the broken pieces, her mother's cry startled
her still more. "Lloyd, run call Becky, quick, quick! Oh, he's dying!"

Lloyd gave one more terrified look and ran to the kitchen, screaming for
Mom Beck. No one was there.

The next instant she was running bareheaded as fast as she could go,
up the road to Locust. She was confident of finding help there. The
snowflakes clung to her hair and blew against her soft cheeks. All she
could see was her mother wringing her hands, and her father's white
face. When she burst into the house where the Colonel sat reading by the