IF it was anybody else but Miss Billy," sighed Mrs. Canary.

Mrs. Hennesy pulled her shawl down over her swollen eyes, and made no reply.

"I've just been in there, an' her fever's higher. She just raved an' tossed all night," went on Mrs. Canary.

"I was on me way there, now," said Mrs. Hennesy,—"but I guess I'll not go in, afther hearing how she is. Folks around a sick house is only a clutter."

"I know it,—but I can't hardly keep away. Seems as if I must do something fer that poor lamb, after all the times she's helped me, takin' care of the childurn an' all. She's just worked herself to death tryin' to keep Cherry Street clean, an' all this summer, that's what she has,—an' no pertic'lar thanks fer it, neither."

"I guess it's not all work that's done it," said Mrs. Hennesy significantly. "It's that ould ciss-pool between us and the Lee's that's been p'isoning her. The wondher is we're not all dead. And afther all the times we've spoke about it to old man Schultzsky, too. Well, I hope he'll mate his reward in the nixt wurld, if he don't in this."

"Do you know, they say he feels awful bad about it. Just walks 'round like a hen on a hot griddle. Don't ask fer no news of her, but just can't settle down easy anywhere. I should think he would be prosterated with grief! An' he wouldn't be the only one! Everybody on the street feels the same way. Her sickness has just cast a shadder over everything. I never seen the beat of it."

Mrs. Hennesy's broad Irish face grew almost beautiful in its tenderness. "I feel like she was wan av me own," she said softly. "No wan, not even the dear child herself, knows what she has done for us! John Thomas hasn't spoke a word about the house for a wake. Miss Billy has done wondhers for that bye. If you could see him workin' over his lessons, an' tidyin' up the yard, an' trainin' up the few bits of vines he's planted! An' Mary Jane, she didn't like her at first, but sure her heart is broke now. As for Mr. Hennesy and mesilf,—well, there's no way to tell how we feel about it."

"I guess we're all mournin' together," said Mrs. Canary. "Mr. Canary wouldn't tech fish fer dinner,—Holly Belle is all stuffed up with tears, an' Friddie hangs round their door till I just expect Mis' Lee'll throw water on him to git red of him. The children are all a-prayin' for her ev'ry night, an' if God kin resest their innercent pleadin' it's more'n I could do."

"It's Cherry Street that's nadin' her more than Hivin does," said Mrs. Hennesy.

"I guess it does!" exclaimed Mrs. Canary fervently. "We can't do without her. The children just fairly adore her image, the big boys and girls all love her, and the fathers and mothers need her the most of all. If she'd never done a thing fer us but to show that pretty smile of hers, an' let us see her eyes shine, an' hear her sweet voice, we'd miss her enough: but rememberin' all she has done——" Words failed the good woman, and her sentence ended abruptly.

"I suppose there's not a thing a person could do to help," said Mrs. Hennesy.

"Not a thing. The house is full of flowers, and things to eat. They've got a nurse that looks like striped stick candy, an' two doctors, an' more offers of help than they know what to do with. There ain't a thing we can do but watch—an' pray. An' if the Lord sees fit to call her Home——"

But Mrs. Hennesy, drawing the shawl again over her eyes, turned away.

The mist of Indian summer lay like a veil over Cherry Street. Out in the garden Miss Billy's flowers were still blooming. The vines were breaking into crisp little tendrils about her window, the La France rose bush was heavy with buds, and the grass was as green and tender as when her feet had last pressed it. Miss Billy's friend, the bulldog, slept serenely on the Lee porch, and her canary trilled softly in the autumn sunshine.

Life seemed to have vanished from the street itself. Down near the Levi house two wooden saw-horses and a plank had been placed across the road to block all traffic, and Policeman Canary paced back and forth to ward off intruders. Grocery boys and butcher lads came and went on foot, and the children who played in the back yards were hushed and subdued by watchful parents "for Miss Billy's sake." Silence reigned everywhere, and the chirping of the twittering sparrows, that could not be hushed, was the only sound that broke the stillness.

Upstairs, in the little green room, where the only movement was the stirring of the thin curtains in the soft wind, lay the girl herself. The active feet were quiet, the busy hands were folded and the dancing eyes were closed. There was nothing about the passive figure that was like Miss Billy. Even the mass of copper-brown hair had been cut away. But this death-like stupor was less terrifying than the intervals of raging fever in which Miss Billy laughed, sang and talked, and lived over and over again her girlish trials and hopes and fears.

"It's such hard work," she would say, tossing restlessly from side to side in the little bed. "Such hard work! Mr. Schultzsky, it's a lie, I tell you. He didn't hit your horse, I saw it all! It's a lie, I tell you. I didn't mean to hurt you! It's my fault, though, not Ted's!... Oh, Ted, you didn't need to step on my grass seed. Why won't you let things grow? It's so hot, so hot, here. Beatrice, you needn't be so mean! He's a friend of mine. Why won't you be kind to him? Please do, please do. He's helped me so."

Then the busy brain would go back to the old life:

"Myrtle Blanchard called us poor. I don't want to be poor. I hate it. I hate Cherry Street! I hate heat! I'm so tired!"

It was when the fever was at its height that the family first guessed the depth of Miss Billy's feeling, for in her delirium she talked wildly of wanting to go back "home," away from Cherry Street, to where everything was "quiet and clean." She longed for Margaret's home-coming, and begged piteously that the Blanchards might not "come in." And then the wild look would disappear, and she would drop back on the pillow with the same old pathetic cry: "I'm so tired. So tired."

So day after day passed. Delirium, restlessness, pain and weakness filled Miss Billy's waking hours, and the only peace came when she sank into a deep stupor, which was almost as fearful to the watchers. The work of the Improvement Club had been abandoned. Ted applied himself industriously to school, and Beatrice found her only comfort in doing housework that gave her no time to think, and left her so physically tired at night that sleep came, after all. Mrs. Van Courtland almost lived at the house, and Margaret, Francis and John Thomas came daily, to hear the reports and bring comfort and help. The members of the Child Garden hung about the gate, begging for news, Mrs. Hennesy waylaid the doctor each morning, and Mrs. Levi sent Moses to the door with a new dainty every day. The life on Cherry Street seemed to centre about the one small room in the old-fashioned house, and the whole street waited and hoped while the autumn sped, and Miss Billy grew no better.

It was after one of the worst days that Beatrice crept out of the room, with her heart full, and her eyes overflowing with tears. She felt her way blindly downstairs, and almost bumped into Francis, who was standing in the dark hall.

"I didn't ring," he said. "How is the little girl?"

Beatrice sat down on the stairs, and grasped the railing tightly as though its dumb wood could offer her some help and support.

"Worse," she said.

Francis' face looked his sympathy.

"How is she worse?" he asked.

"She's been raving for two hours. Dr. Lane has sent for Dr. Howitt. Her temperature has never been so high."

"Is she in great—danger?"

Beatrice nodded. "They don't say so, but——" Her voice failed her.

"Is there anything I can do?"

"Not a thing. The nurse is there, and mother and father don't leave her for an instant. She doesn't even need me. If there was anything to be done,—but to sit and wait is so awful!—I'm going down now to make a cup of tea for mother. She looks like a ghost."

"And so do you, poor little girl." He laid his strong brown hand over the small white one on the railing. Beatrice sat still for a moment, and then, laying her head on her arm, cried her heart out.

"I can't give her up," she sobbed wildly. "I can't! I can't! I never knew before what she was to me. And all this summer when she has been toiling away over her children and the weeds and the street, I have sat and criticised, and discouraged her. I have been so selfish, so small and so mean! Oh, I don't deserve to have Miss Billy, but if she lives, I'll love God all my life. I can't spare her now."

Francis laid his hand softly upon the bowed golden head, and waited until the paroxysm of sobs had passed.

"I can't tell you how sorry I am," he said gently. "I love Miss Billy, too, you know. But there is nothing for us to do but wait and—hope. I shan't give up yet. Come down with me and let me make you the tea. You need it as much as your mother."

The night came down softly on Cherry Street. The shadows deepened and the silver crescent of the new moon appeared in the sky. Dr. Howitt arrived and went immediately to the sick room. The nurse passed through the hall with a glass of wine. Supper was announced, and was cleared away untasted. Beatrice and Theodore sat silently in the study. At nine o'clock the nurse came down the stairs again.

"Mrs. Lee says for you both to go to bed. She will call you if there's the slightest change. If you can get any sleep, so much the better. And Mr. Theodore, there's a boy out in the yard."

Beatrice obediently followed the nurse upstairs, and Ted went quietly out of the door. A dark figure could be dimly seen striding up and down in the faint light cast from Miss Billy's room. Theodore rounded the porch, and stopped the shadowy form in its march. It was John Thomas.

"How is she?" he whispered.

Ted shook his head despairingly, without a word.

"You'd better go to bed," said John Thomas.

"So had you," returned Ted.

"I can't sleep," exclaimed the figure.

Ted turned stiffly. "Neither can I," he said. His feet seemed to tangle in the wet grass as he walked toward the house again.

"So long," said John Thomas hoarsely.

"So long," returned Theodore.

A restless sleep had just fallen on Theodore when there was a light rap on the door. "Come," said the nurse. "There is a change. Your mother has sent for you. As quiet as possible, please." The boy flung on his bath robe, and hurried into the hall. Beatrice had just come out from her room. The sister and brother clasped hands and went on together.

In Miss Billy's room the light had been turned very low. Dr. Howitt had gone. The family doctor stood near the window. Mr. Lee sat by the bedside with a look upon his worn face that the children had never seen. His wife was on her knees, with one of the pale hands clasped in her own, as though the mother's grasp would hold the child in spite of Death. A soft grey shadow seemed to have fallen over Miss Billy's face, and she lay in deep stupor.

The little group gathered around the bed, and waited. The minutes slowly passed, Miss Billy's small clock ticking them off with an intensity that was almost painful.

The grey light began to grow in the eastern window, and a soft breeze blew in from the lake. The glimmer of the lamp paled as the room grew lighter. Afar off a dog barked, and one of Mr. Hennesy's roosters heralded the coming of the new day. The first glow of red light had appeared in the sky, when Miss Billy moved slightly in the bed.

"Mother," she whispered. Then she opened her eyes wide, with a hint of the old-time smile. "Has the morning come?" she asked. "I've had bad dreams."