Part 28 (1/2)

Ella hesitated; then, knowing that deceit was useless, she stammered out the truth.

”Why, er--only Mr. Herrick.”

”Not William Herrick, the undertaker!” There was apparently only pleased surprise in the old woman's voice.

”Yes,” nodded Ella feverishly, ”he had business out this way, and--and got snowed up,” she explained with some haste.

”Ye don't say,” murmured the old woman. ”Well, ask him in; I'd like ter see him.”

”Aunt Abby!”--Ella's teeth fairly chattered with dismay.

”Yes, I'd like ter see him,” repeated the old woman with cordial interest. ”Call him in.”

And Ella could do nothing but obey.

Herrick, however, did not stay long in the sick-room. The situation was uncommon for him, and not without its difficulties. As soon as possible he fled to the kitchen, telling Jim that it gave him ”the creeps” to have her ask him where he'd started for, and if business was good.

All that day it snowed and all that night; nor did the dawn of Friday bring clear skies. For hours the wind had swept the snow from roofs and hilltops, piling it into great drifts that grew moment by moment deeper and more impa.s.sable.

In the farmhouse Herrick was still a prisoner.

The sick woman was better. Even Jim knew now that it was no momentary flare of the candle before it went out. Mrs. Darling was undeniably improving in health. She had sat up several times in bed, and had begun to talk of wrappers and slippers. She ate toast, eggs, and jellies, and hinted at chicken and beefsteak. She was weak, to be sure, but behind her, supporting and encouraging, there seemed to be a curious strength--a strength that sent a determined gleam to her eyes, and a grim tenseness to her lips.

At noon the sun came out, and the wind died into fitful gusts. The two men attacked the drifts with a will, and made a path to the gate. They even attempted to break out the road, and Herrick harnessed his horse and started for home; but he had not gone ten rods before he was forced to turn back.

”'T ain't no use,” he grumbled. ”I calc'late I'm booked here till the crack o' doom!”

”An' ter-morrer's the fun'ral,” groaned Jim. ”An' I can't git nowhere--_nowhere_ ter tell 'em not ter come!”

”Well, it don't look now as if anybody'd come--or go,” snapped the undertaker.

Sat.u.r.day dawned fair and cold. Early in the morning the casket was moved from the parlor to the attic.

There had been sharp words at the breakfast table, Herrick declaring that he had made a sale, and refusing to take the casket back to town; hence the move to the attic; but in spite of their caution, the sick woman heard the commotion.

”What ye been cartin' upstairs?” she asked in a mildly curious voice.

Ella was ready for her.

”A chair,” she explained smoothly; ”the one that was broke in the front room, ye know.” And she did not think it was necessary to add that the chair was not all that had been moved. She winced and changed color, however, when her aunt observed:

”Humph! Must be you're expectin' company, Ella.”

It was almost two o'clock when loud voices and the crunch of heavy teams told that the road-breakers had come. All morning the Nortons had been hoping against hope that the fateful hour would pa.s.s, and the road be still left in unbroken whiteness. Someone, however, had known his duty too well--and had done it.

”I set ter work first thing on this road,” said the man triumphantly to Ella as he stood, shovel in hand, at the door. ”The parson's right behind, an' there's a lot more behind him. Gorry! I was afraid I wouldn't git here in time, but the fun'ral wan't till two, was it?”

Ella's dry lips refused to move. She shook her head.

”There's a mistake,” she said faintly. ”There ain't no fun'ral. Aunt Abby's better.”