"On the contrary," he returned, "I'll come along, with Mrs. Sliefer's
permission."
We drove on accordingly, the three of us, covering the distance past
Dutchman's Hill and the Lessing's bungalow at a smart trot. A few
minutes beyond the saw-mill, along the road Mary Lessing and I had
taken some mornings ago, the Sliefer's farm-house came in sight, a
comfortable low-built dwelling standing back in a good-sized orchard
with the barn and out-buildings clustered near it.
We found Rebecca in an upper bedroom, watched over by a mute and
scared-looking neighbor, who had been fetched in to sit with her
while her aunt was away. The girl lay in bed, her eyes rolling, her
hands twitching nervously on the covers. There was nothing alarming
in her condition, which had been brought about as much by Mrs.
Sliefer's well-meant home physicking as by the original fright.