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.
"Sam," she directed hurriedly, "you go back
