Barbara's new task as nurse and housekeeper at the parsonage was not an easy one, but after the second day she had everything in good order—everything except her patient. For him there was little hope—Barbara knew, and Mr. Flint himself knew.

When the minister first saw her after he had been lying alone for hours his only thought was that she had come to demand something. He had publicly denounced her; she had been turned away from his door; what could she have come for except revenge?

"I have come to take care of you, Mr. Flint," was all that she had said, but it was enough to reassure him.

Barbara's work had taken her into all of the rooms in the house in search of one thing or another. The first day she had opened the door of his room—Will's. She had only taken a step when she discovered whose room it was, and knew that what she was looking for would not be found there. She could not resist the temptation, however, to glance about the room. There were his books, and his fishing-rods and tackle; his shotgun stood in a corner, and near a window was an old-fashioned writing-table. It was a boy's room—his room. Barbara feasted her eyes for a moment, and then, remembering her patient, stepped back into the hall, and softly closed the door.

Hanging on the wall, opposite the foot of Mr. Flint's bed, in an oval frame of black walnut, was a photograph of Will. The picture was a likeness of a sturdy little chap of three, with large, staring eyes, fat cheeks, and long curls. Barbara looked at it often; Mr. Flint, too, often looked at the picture, but only when Barbara was not in the room,—while she was there his eyes followed her constantly. There was something about her, and what she was doing for him, that he, in his condition, could not understand. They talked but little. Once Mr. Flint began to speak of his notorious sermon, but Barbara quickly stopped him.

Sam Billings had been hired by the board of health to maintain quarantine on the parsonage, though the fear of the people of Manville made it almost unnecessary except for the sake of appearances. The weather was mild, and when not engaged in a noisy conversation with some one across the road, Sam sat on the steps, or paced the path to the gate. Through Sam and Doctor Jones was the only means Barbara had of communicating with the world, but just then she had little use for the world or many in it. Sam afforded her some amusement, however, when she went to the door for a breath of fresh air.

"I tell you, Miss Wallace," he said, one morning, "folks have changed their minds about you."

"That is a right we all have," Barbara smilingly replied.

"They all think that you're a heroine now."

"I am sure of one good friend in you, Mr. Billings." The "Mr." pleased Sam greatly—it was seldom used as a prefix to his name.

"You're jest right about that," Sam grinned. He liked Barbara and her smile immensely. When she had gone in and closed the door he reflected that, if he were younger, and knew more, and had a steady job, and Billy Flint was not in love with her and she with him, why, he would put his best foot forward.

"Has any word come from Will?" Mr. Flint asked, on the afternoon of the second day.

"No," Barbara replied; "but I know that we shall hear to-day."

The sick man turned restlessly.

"I must see him," he moaned; "there is something that I must say to him, and to you—Barbara." He hesitated before speaking her name—it was the first time he had called her that.

"But, Mr. Flint," remonstrated Barbara, in alarm, "he cannot come here, he must not put himself in danger; besides, there will be plenty of time when you are well again."

"That time may not come. I must tell him before it is too late."

"But not at the risk of his life. Is not his life more to you—and to me—than our own?"

"Yes," was the feeble reply, and then he muttered: "My miserable life."

"There," said Barbara, soothingly, "we have talked more than is for your good." She started to leave the room, but he held out his hand appealingly.

"Wait," he said. "If I cannot tell him I must say it to you. I have guessed the secret, yours and Will's. It was that more than anything else that made me preach as I did. From childhood to manhood I fear I have wronged him. I was narrow—blind. I have wronged you, too, and yet you came to save me. For Will's sake forgive me, Barbara, and if I never see him again tell him that I lived to realize my sin, tell him that I have suffered—" The minister stopped abruptly and listened. There was a quick step in the hall below. Barbara turned quickly toward the door, and Mr. Flint dropped his outstretched hand. Some one was running up the stairs. Barbara half-guessed the truth and was transfixed with horror.

"Will!" she screamed, as he appeared in the doorway. "Don't come in—go quick—think of the danger!"

Mr. Flint had half-raised himself, and was staring at his son with a look of agony on his face.

"In God's name, Will, go! Your life—"

Will calmly raised his hand as though to command silence.

"Danger, my life?" he said, and then smiled as he took Barbara's hands in his own. "Your life is my life, Barbara."

"And mine," groaned the sick man.

"Yes, and yours, father," replied Will, as he went to the bed and looked into his father's eyes. "I'm sorry to find you this way, but I have good news of mother. She is better, except for worrying about you and wanting to come." A sob from Barbara caused Will to turn quickly and clasp her in his arms, and as he wiped away the tears and kissed her, he saw the worry and work written on her face.

"I have come to help, Barbara," he said. She understood and blessed him for it, but until all danger was passed she prayed unceasingly for his safety.

That evening Sam Billings was dozing on the front steps when Will opened the door without thinking that Sam was not aware of his presence in the parsonage.

"Hello, Sam," he said.

Sam was so startled that he almost fell down the steps. When he had recovered his balance he stood up, rubbed his eyes, and stared.

"Well, I'm blamed if it ain't Billy Flint!" he exclaimed. "How'd you get in?"

"By the back door; I knew that you would make a fuss if I tried to get in this way."

"Ain't you takin' big chances?"

"I'd be taking bigger ones if I stayed away."

Sam mentally concluded that Will knew what he was talking about, though he could not understand it himself.

"What'll folks say?" he blurted.

Will's face grew dark with anger.

"What will they say?" he asked, quickly. "What do I care what they say? What can they say that will be worse than what has been said?"

Sam backed down the steps. He had blundered, and feared Will's wrath.

"Of course, I didn't mean—" he stammered.

"Never mind," interrupted Will, "I have an errand for you to do. Go to the town clerk, and get a blank application for a marriage license."

"A—a what?" gasped Sam.

"I'm not crazy, Sam," said Will, who was much amused by Sam's astonishment. "Do as I've asked, and when there is any news worth telling you shall hear it first."

Sam started off without another word, and Will returned to his father and Barbara.

When Sam made his errand known to Mr. Wiggins, the town clerk, he was laughed at.

"No foolin' now," said Sam, impatiently. "I want one of them applications, and I want it quick."

"There you are," replied Mr. Wiggin, as he handed Sam the desired blank. "Better fill it out right here, Sam, and then I can give you the license without any delay."

"No; I guess I won't fill it out jest now," drawled Sam, with a grin.

"Perhaps you ain't quite sure of the lady's age."

"That's it, I ain't."

"I always thought that you'd get married sometime, Sam."

Sam had been joked so often about matrimony that it seldom annoyed him, and now that his inquisitor was wholly on the wrong scent he was greatly amused.

"Well," he replied, "most men do marry sooner or later."

"And in your case it's a good deal later," chuckled Mr. Wiggins.

"Yes; but you see I've seen so many blamed fools get married 'fore they'd cut all their second teeth I've kinder hung off," Sam retorted.

"Miss Sawyer's a nice kind of woman," ventured Mr. Wiggins, as he coughed, and looked at a picture on the wall. The grin on Sam's face disappeared.

"Who said anything about her?" he demanded, indignantly.

"I said that she was a nice kind of a woman. No harm in that, is there?" Mr. Wiggins mildly asked, as he turned his weak little eyes on Sam, who did not dare to meet them with his own.

"No," grunted Sam, as he turned to go; "but I must be goin'."

"Good luck to you," called Mr. Wiggins, as Sam ran down the steps.

The town clerk and his wife had callers that evening, and Mr. Wiggins, thinking that the joke was too good to keep, told them of Sam's errand, not forgetting to say that during their conversation Miss Sawyer's name had been mentioned.

News germs spread faster and farther than any other kind of bugs. The next afternoon Miss Sawyer heard from reliable sources that she was to be married to Mr. Samuel Billings a week from Thursday at seven o'clock in the evening by the Rev. Thomas Morton, of Uphill Centre, who had married her father and mother forty years before. She also heard that her wedding-gown was to be of gray and white foulard silk, with lace trimmings, and that her other things were just lovely. There was more, but she fainted and missed it. Poor Lizzie, it was cruel, terribly cruel.

When Sam returned to the parsonage Will was at the door waiting for him.

"The old fool thought it was for me," said Sam.

"Your turn may come next," Will replied. "Got a pencil?"

"Yes."

"Then read the questions, and write the answers as I give them." Sam obeyed, though with difficulty, because his lantern flickered, and he was not "much at writin' anyhow."

"Goin' to be married to-night, Billy?" asked Sam, when the application had been filled out.

"Never mind; go and get the license," replied Will.

When Mr. Wiggins read the names on the blank which Sam brought on his second visit, he dropped the paper and jumped back with horror. Sam laughed outright as he picked it up and held it out to the fear-stricken man.

"Don't be scared," he said; "nobody in the parsonage touched it. I wrote it myself just as Billy Flint told me to."

Mr. Wiggins felt relieved and angry.

"Why didn't you tell me who it was for?" he demanded.

"'Cause you jumped at the answer without givin' me a chance," retorted Sam.

Without another word the town clerk made out the license, and when it was finished gave it to Sam, who started quickly for the door.

"Next time," said Mr. Wiggins, stiffly, "you'll save yourself trouble by not being so close-mouthed."

"And next time," replied Sam, "you'd better not jump the creek till you get to it."

When Sam returned Will picked up the paper that was placed on the top step, thanked him, and turned to reËnter the house.

"Say, Billy," said Sam, "what am I goin' to say to folks when they ask me?"

"Tell them all that you know."

"And s'posin' they asked me if you was married?"

"Tell them that if they live long enough they'll know sometime," replied Will, as he shut the door, and ran lightly up the stairs to the sickroom. Barbara met him at the door with her finger on her lips cautioning silence.

"He's asleep," she said.