"That dime little Sissy give me is the first gift I've had made me in
thirty-five year. Wal, young man, ye must ha' known--didn't ye now?--
that you was takin' big chances in comin' after ole Pap Spooner. I'll
bet the hull crowd down in Paradise laughed at the idee o' fetchin'
me--hey?"
"Nobody laughs in Paradise now, and nobody except my brother, the
doctor, and Sissy's father knows that I've come after you."
"Ye'll ride back and say the old man was skeered--hey?"
"Well, you are, aren't you?"
"Yes; I've enough sense to know when I am skeered. I'm skeered plum to
death, but all the same I'm a-goin' back with you, because Sissy give
me that dime. There's a sack o' crushed barley behind that shed. Give
yer plug a half feed, an' by then I'll be ready."
We rode into Paradise as night was closing in. The south-east wind was
still blowing, and the thin veil of mist upon the mountain had grown
into a cloud. In front of George Leadham's house were a couple of
eucalyptus trees. Their long, lanceolate leaves were shaking as Pap
and I passed through the gate. A man's shadow darkened the small
porch. To the right was the room where Sissy lay. A light still shone
in the window. The shadow moved; it was the doctor. He hurried
forward.
"Glad to make your acquaintance," said he to Pap, whom he had never
seen before.
"Air ye? You wa'n't expectin' me, surely?"
"Certainly," replied the doctor, impatiently. "What man wouldn't come
under such circumstances?"
"Is there much danger?" said Pap, anxiously.
"The child is as ill as she can be."
"I meant fer--me."
"Great Scot! If you feel like that you'd better not go in." His tone
was dully contemptuous.
"Wal--I do feel like that, on'y more so; an' I'm goin' in all the
same. Reckon I'm braver'n you, 'cause you ain't skeered."
We entered the room. George Leadham was sitting by the bed. When he
saw us he bent over the flushed face on the pillow, and said, slowly
and distinctly: "Here's Mr. Spooner, my pretty; he's come. Do you
hear?"
She heard perfectly. In a thick, choked voice she said: "Is that you,
Pap?"
"It's me," he replied; "it's me, sure enough."
"Why, so'tis. Popsy, where's my money?"
"Here, Sissy, right here."
She extended a thin, wasted hand.
"I want you to have it, Pap," she said, speaking very slowly, but in a
clearer tone. "You see, it's like this. I've got the diptheery, an'
I'm a-goin' to die. I don't need the money--see! And you do, you pore
old Pap, so you must take it."
Pap took the money in silence. George Leadham had turned aside, unable
to speak. I stood behind the door, out of sight. Sissy stared
anxiously at Pap.
"Popsy said you wouldn't come, but I knew you would," she sighed.
"Good-bye, you pore old Pap." She closed her eyes, but she held Pap's
hand. The young doctor came forward with his finger upon his lips.
Quietly, he signed to Pap to leave the room; the old man shook his
head. The doctor beckoned the father and me out on to the porch.
"Miracles sometimes happen," said he, gravely. "The child has fallen
into a natural sleep."
But not for three hours did her grip relax of Pap's hand, and he sat
beside her patiently, refusing to budge. Who shall say what was
passing in his mind, so long absorbed in itself, and now, if one could
judge by his face, absorbed at last in this child?
When he came out of the room he spoke to the doctor in a new voice.
"If she wants anything--anything, you understan'--you get it--see?"
"Certainly."
"And look ye here; I shall be stayin' at my old _adobe_, but if
the others want fer anything, you understan', get it--see?"
"Certainly, Mr. Spooner. I shall not fail to call on you, sir, because
we want many things."
"That's all right; but," his tone grew hard and sharp, "if--if she--
dies, this contrack is broke. The rest kin die too; the sooner the
better."
"But she won't die, Mr. Spooner," said the young doctor, cheerfully.
"I feel in my bones, sir, that Sissy Leadham won't die."
And it may be added here that she didn't.
* * * * *
At the ranch-house that night Ajax and I sat up, watching, waiting,
praying for the rain that would wash the diphtheria from Paradise and
despair from our hearts. The south-east wind sang louder and louder in
the cotton woods by the creek; the parched live oaks crackled with
fear that the gathering clouds should roll by, the willows shivered
and bowed themselves low in supplication. From the parched earth and
every living thing thereon went up the passionate cry for water.
One by one we saw the stars fade out of the sky. The Dipper
disappeared; then the Pole Star was extinguished. Orion veiled his
triple splendours. The Milky Way ceased to be....
"It's coming," whispered Ajax.
Suddenly the wind died down; the trees became mute; only the frogs
croaked a final Hallelujah Chorus, because they alone knew. And then,
out of the heaven which had seemed to have forsaken us, coming slowly
at first, as if with the timid, halting step of a stranger; coming
quickly and gladly afterwards, as an old friend comes back to the
place where he is sure of a welcome; and lastly, with a sound of ten
thousand pattering feet, with a whirring of innumerable wings, with a
roar of triumph and ecstasy, Prosperity poured down upon Paradise.