Another ten minutes of waiting quite exhausted Persis' store of patience. She stepped into the kitchen where Mary's sister was helping Mary with the extra work due to Persis' engrossing activities.

"Keep an eye on Celia and the baby, girls. If they say they're hungry try 'em with bread and b.u.t.ter without any sugar. I'll probably be back before the rest get home from school, but if I'm not here, tell 'em not to go away. We'll have a good ride before supper."

The West dwelling had that look of peaceful complacency characteristic of well-ordered establishments in mid-afternoon. Persis entered by the unlocked kitchen door, carrying Mrs. West's skirt over her arm. "Mis'

West," she called challengingly, "Mis' West." And then as the silence remained unbroken, she found her irritation evaporating in anxiety.

Could anything be wrong? "Mis' West," she called again at the foot of the stairs, and an observer could have argued from her altered voice a corresponding psychological change.

A sound answered her, something between a grunt and a groan, and sufficient to send her scurrying up the stairs with a marked acceleration of the pulse. Her vague foreboding took shape when as she reached the upper hall, she caught sight of a prostrate figure, partially visible through a half-open door. "A stroke!" thought Persis, and the black silk slipping from her arm, dropped in an unheeded heap.

The rec.u.mbent figure did not move as Persis flew down the hall, but as she entered the room, the head stirred slightly as if to look in her direction. Persis dropped upon her knees.

"Can you understand me, Etta?" she spoke with terrifying gentleness.

"Don't be a fool, Persis Dale." The vehemence of the rejoinder was startling. "Why shouldn't I understand?"

"Then it's just a fall, is it?"

Mrs. West hesitated before replying. "No," she returned in a tone of marked irritability, "I didn't fall."

"Then what's the matter?"

"I didn't say there was anything the matter, did I?" Mrs. West's ill humor seemed to be gaining on her. "I s'pose if a body wants to lie down for a while--in her own room--after her day's work is done--her neighbors haven't any real call to make a fuss."

The amazed Persis continued in a kneeling position, her bewilderment rendering her incapable of movement.

"You mean that you're lying here--because you like it?"

"On a warm day," said Mrs. West with dignity, "a floor's cooler than a bed and it saves mussing the spread."

Persis studied her thoughtfully. "I can't say you look cool, Mis'

West. I guess I never saw you so fire-red as you are at this minute.

But if that's your idea of having a good time, why, every one to his taste, as the old woman said when she kissed the cow."

She rose with a dignity that matched Mrs. West's own and moved toward the door. "Maybe you remember that you had an appointment for a fitting at two," she suggested coldly, "I brought your dress over, but of course if you're busy enjoying yourself--"

"Persis Dale," cried Mrs. West, her voice breaking, "I didn't think you had it in you to be so hard-hearted."

Slowly Persis retraced her steps. Her prostrate friend was weeping.

Large impressive tears rolled slowly over cheeks whose fiery hue suggested the possibility that each drop might immediately be converted into steam.

"Mis' West," began Persis in a tone of strained patience, "will you please tell me if you've taken leave of your senses or what?"

Mrs. West's tears flowed faster. Hysterical tremors agitated the rec.u.mbent ma.s.s. "I--I can't get up," she exploded at length, in seemingly reluctant confidence.

"Can't get up? But how did you get down?"

"Persis--I--I was rolling."

"Rolling!"

"To reduce, Persis. My cousin Aggie said she took off twenty pounds in ten weeks rolling half an hour a day. And I thought it was worth trying."

Persis suddenly averted her face.

"Don't laugh, Persis. It may be funny for a man to be fat, but it's a tragedy for a woman. I've been thinking how Annabel Sinclair will look at that wedding, with a figure like a girl of twenty-one, and it didn't seem as if I could stand two hundred and twenty-six. But if rolling's a cure, I guess I started too late."

"Why can't you get up, Mis' West?" inquired Persis, regarding the prostrate woman with a becomingly serious countenance. "You haven't wrenched yourself, anywhere, have you?"

"Not that I know of, Persis. I didn't hear anything snap. I guess I'm stalled, like a horse. Maybe if I wasn't quite so near the couch I could manage. If Thad or his father get home before I'm up, I'll never hear the last of it."

Realizing that her friend's apprehension was well grounded, Persis brought her strong muscles and resolute will to bear upon the problem.

She had lifted many a sick patient too weak to turn upon his pillow, and she knew the trick of making every ounce of energy count. Inspired by her example, Mrs. West put forth all her strength and as a result of their combined efforts she rose with ponderous slowness into a sitting position. The rest was easy. With Persis boosting and panting encouragement, the unhappy exponent of other people's theories regained her feet and tottered to a chair.

"Goodness, gracious, Persis, I'm as limp as a wash-rag. No more rolling for me, not if I get up to three hundred pounds." She looked at her friend appealingly. "Don't ask me to stand up and be fitted, Persis. There's no more starch in my knees than if they were pieces of string."

Persis made haste to disclaim any such intention. "What you want is a fan, Mis' West, and a cup of tea, to quiet your nerves down. You've got to get braced up before Mr. West comes in, or he'll be at you to find out what the trouble is. And when a man gets a little joke like this on his wife, he's bound to make it last the rest of his natural life."

Leaving her friend to compose herself, Persis hurried to the kitchen and brewed the restorative cup of tea she had recommended. As she carried it to her patient the telephone lifted up its voice.

Mrs. West counted the rings. "One, two, three, four. That's Nellie Gibson's call, Persis. I wish you'd listen and see if you can find out if Josephine Newhall has got there yet. Nellie's been talking of that visit all winter."

Persis complied unhesitatingly. In Clematis no kill-joy had arisen to question the propriety of listening to the conversation of the other subscribers to a party line. It was the universal understanding that one of the foremost if not the chief advantage in having a telephone, was the gratification to be derived from overhearing the confidences of one's neighbors. To have denominated this eavesdropping, would have aroused general indignation.

Persis took down the telephone without a qualm and instantly recognized the high-pitched voice of Mrs. Gibson, Thomas Hardin's sister. She was speaking more loudly than is necessary in such conversation and with a seeming lack of amiability.

"Well if you won't come to supper to-night, when will you come? Set a time right now."

"Really I don't know, Nellie." Persis started as the gentle deprecating tones reached her ears. "I'm pretty busy at this season.

I guess I hadn't better say--"

"Fiddlesticks and folderol! I know just how busy you are. I guess if Persis Dale hadn't thrown you over like a worn-out shoe, you'd have found time enough to get over to see her every blessed night of the world."

It was clearly the moment for Persis to hang up the receiver.

Regrettable as it is to record, she listened with a seeming accession of interest for Thomas' reply. But his only answer was a discreet silence.

"When you talk of being busy," Mrs. Gibson continued witheringly, "I know what's in your mind. You mean you won't come to this house while Josephine is here."

Still silence on the part of Thomas.

"Thomas Hardin," his sister burst out, "why don't you say something? I can stand a man that takes the roof off when he's mad lots better than the kind that shut up like clams. Are you coming to supper this week or not?"

"No, Nellie, I guess not."

"You mean you're not coming near the house while Josephine stays? Be a man. Speak out plain."

"Nellie," said the goaded Thomas, acting on her counsel, "I haven't got a thing against any friend of yours, but I'm tired of your match-making."

"Match-making!" Mrs. Gibson repeated, like most who adopt that most thankless of the professions ready on the instant to repudiate it.