Early the next morning Will started for the parsonage. On the way he wondered if misunderstanding and contention would stand between him and his father now, as it had in the past, even though a woman's name was in the balance.

On arriving at the house and attempting to open the door, Will discovered that he did not have his keys with him. He rang the bell, but no one answered. A second and a third ring in rapid succession proved equally unsuccessful. Then he went to the back door and knocked heavily—still no response. On the way back to the front door he looked in at a window, but could see no one. Will was surprised and disappointed. He knew of his mother's absence, but could not understand why his father was not there at that time in the morning. He gave the front door-bell a final ring, waited several minutes, and then started off toward the home of school committeeman George.

As he was passing Stout's Grocery, Sam Billings, who was standing in the doorway, waved his hand and called:

"Hello, Billy."

"Hello, Sam," Will replied without stopping.

"I thought you'd be 'round here 'fore long. Lively times," Sam shouted, but Will made no reply. He met many friends and acquaintances that day who looked curiously at him as he greeted them and hastened by. He had no inclination for idle talk, nor time; there being so much serious work to be done, and only a day for its accomplishment, as it was necessary for him to return to the city that night.

When Will walked into Mr. George's office that morning, that gentleman had not fully recovered from the effects of Mrs. Stout's visit of the night before. And when Will had concluded his remarks he felt about as mean and frightened as a narrow-minded man can feel.

Will called next on the other members of the school committee, the editor of the local paper, in which much had been insinuated concerning Barbara, and the deacons of his father's church. At noon he returned to Mrs. Stout's, and when Barbara asked him where he had been, smilingly replied, "Calling on our friends."

In the afternoon Will gave his time and attention to the prominent ladies of the town,—Mrs. Tweedie, Mrs. Blake, Mrs. Jones, Mrs. Darling, and several others. He was extremely courteous to the ladies, but when he had finished, many of them knew what he would have said, and how he would have said it, if they had happened to be men.

Toward night, when on his way back to Mrs. Stout's, Will stopped again at the parsonage, and found it, as in the morning, apparently deserted, and concluded that his father had gone away for the day, perhaps to join his mother.

"Well," said Mrs. Stout as she opened the door for him, "feel any better?"

"Yes; but I doubt if I've done Barbara any good," he replied.

"It's satisfyin', though, to tell folks what you think of 'em," chuckled Mrs. Stout.

Will laughed, and went to meet Barbara.

"Been scolding all the afternoon?" she asked.

"Yes."

"Whom?"

Will named the ladies on whom he had called. Mrs. Stout was greatly pleased, especially when he spoke of Mrs. Tweedie, but Barbara looked grave.

"What did you say to them, Will?" she asked when he had finished.

"Something that they will never forget," he replied.

"And what did they say to you?" asked Mrs. Stout, curiously.

"Everything except the right thing."

"Made all kinds of excuses, I s'pose, but just wait till the next meetin' of the club; if I don't make a speech that'll make 'em feel like a piece of worn-out carpet, it'll be because I'm struck dumb before I get a chance," said Mrs. Stout, vigorously, and then started for the kitchen to get supper.

"Have you seen your father, Will?" Barbara asked a moment later.

"No; but I have been to the house twice. Perhaps it is best. I hope to be in a better mood when I come down next week."

"When you do see him, please try to forget me, just think of him, and speak to him as your father."

"If you wish—"

"No, Will, because it is right—for your own sake," she pleaded, and he promised.

Between supper and train-time there was an opportunity for Barbara and Will to make again the vows of lovers. They forgot the time, the train—everything except each other; but, fortunately, Mrs. Stout did not, and when the time came, warned them that further delay was out of the question by coughing just outside the door, with an effort that was ridiculous, and asking them if they knew what time it was. Barbara, who was to accompany Will to the railroad station, ran to put on her things, and Will called to Mrs. Stout to come in, which she did.

"I can't thank you enough for your kindness," said Will, grasping her hand. "If it hadn't been for you, I don't know what Barbara would have done."

"Oh, nonsense, I guess somebody'd come along if I hadn't," replied Mrs. Stout.

"But she had been to several somebodies."

"Well, I don't see how I could have done any different," said Mrs. Stout, modestly.

"Bless you for it, Mrs. Stout, I can never forget."

"Bless you again, and again," added Barbara, who came into the room at that moment, and emphasized her blessing with a kiss on Mrs. Stout's red, fat cheek. As they were going down the steps, Will turned and called, "Good-bye."

"Good-bye," came a yell from three lusty young throats.

"Good-bye, boys," laughed Will, with a wave of his hand to the three youngsters, who had stolen unawares into the hall behind their mother.

"You scamps!" exclaimed Mrs. Stout, as she shut the door, and "shooed" them back up-stairs.

For a moment Barbara and Will were silent.

It was a beautifully still night, the air was clear and cold—just such a night as the one on which the sleigh-ride accident had occurred, but so much had happened since then that neither thought of it.

"When are you going home, Barbara?" Will asked, suddenly.

"Very soon, in a day or two, probably."

"And when—when shall we be—" Will hesitated. "Married" is a difficult word to speak sometimes, but it came after a moment, and manfully.

"I am ready, Will, when you are," Barbara replied. At that moment they heard the pounding of a horse's hoofs, and the sound of sleigh-bells, coming furiously toward them. They stopped to listen, and as the sound came nearer, Will, thinking that it was a runaway, started into the road, but Barbara clung to his arm and held him back. Love is selfish sometimes, and has a right to be. As the team rushed by, they saw that it was Doctor Jones.

"A race—perhaps with death," said Will, as they walked on. Barbara shuddered.

The train was late, and while waiting, Barbara and Will slowly paced the dimly lighted platform. When at last the warning shriek of the engine on the approaching train came through the still night air, they stopped in their walk, and with clasped hands watched the glaring headlight as it rapidly neared them. The station-master, lantern in hand, emerged from his warm office and shivered when he felt the cold air, but he did not see the man and woman who stood near.

"Have courage," said Will, as the train stopped.

"And faith," Barbara whispered, as he turned to leave her. A moment more and he was gone. She watched until the red lights on the rear of the train had disappeared, then slowly walked toward Mrs. Stout's. In returning she went by a different road, one that would take her by the parsonage. The way was lonely, but she did not notice, and deserted until she approached the home of Mr. Flint, with the black church looming across the way. A horse and sleigh were standing by the side of the road, and near the gate two men, one with a red lantern, were talking earnestly. As Barbara drew nearer she saw that the red light had been improvised by tying a red handkerchief around an ordinary lantern, and recognized the men by their voices as Doctor Jones and Sam Billings.

"I can't find a man or a woman who will come," she heard the doctor say.

"He's a mighty sick man, and—" said Sam, but Barbara interrupted him.

"Who?" she asked. The two men had not heard her approach, and when she spoke they were startled and instinctively stepped back. Barbara misunderstood their action, and a feeling of bitter resentment arose within her, as she started to hasten by.

"Oh, is it Miss Wallace?" asked the doctor.

"Yes," Barbara replied.

"I beg your pardon, Miss Wallace," said the doctor, quickly, "it is not you of whom we are afraid, but Mr. Flint is dangerously ill, and has been lying in his study unattended since yesterday; Sam, here, made the discovery to-night. Mrs. Flint is away. I sent for her, but received word that she is sick too, and I can't find any one to take care of him. Has Will gone?"

"Yes; but what is the—what is Mr. Flint's trouble?" Barbara asked, and looked wonderingly at the red lantern.

The doctor knew that Barbara's courage was good, he remembered how fearlessly she had worked during the epidemic of diphtheria, early in the winter, yet he hesitated now before answering her question.

"Why don't you tell me?" said Barbara, impatiently. "What is it?"

"Smallpox," replied the doctor.

It was Barbara's turn to shrink from them.

"And no one to nurse him?" she asked.

"No; and that is what he needs more than anything else," said the doctor.

"There must be some one—are they afraid?"

"Naturally."

"But if you cannot get some one—"

"His chance for life is nothing."

"He must not lie there alone and suffer!" Barbara cried, as the horror of the situation became more deeply impressed on her mind. The three were silent for a moment. Each was trying to think of some one who was competent, and willing to do the work.

"I know who will do it," said Barbara, suddenly.

"Who?" the doctor asked, eagerly.

"I will," Barbara calmly replied.

"No!" exclaimed the doctor and Sam together.

"I must," she replied, firmly.

"But you have been worried, you are in no condition to undertake such work," the doctor pleaded. "Think of the risk, and the work, day and night for days, perhaps weeks."

"Will it be any harder to bear than what I have already borne?" she asked. The men were silent. "Please send word to Mrs. Stout, and—I will go in now." She turned to go, but stopped when the doctor spoke.

"You may save him, but you will sacrifice yourself. Why should you do that for the man who—"

"Please, doctor, do not remind me of what he has done—I have tried to forget."

"Pardon me," said the doctor, who saw that she was determined. "Sam will be here outside to get anything that you may need. I shall call in the morning."

Barbara walked up the path to the door of the parsonage. The two men watched, and, accustomed as the doctor was to scenes of suffering, sacrifice and death, there were tears in his eyes.

"She's an angel," muttered Sam.

"Courage, faith," was Barbara's whispered prayer as she opened the door of the pest-stricken house and went in.