me, as people passed in and out, was the sickly look of everybody. All elasticity seemed to have been drawn away from them. Not being able to make myself or Alice particularly comfortable, I turned to Typhoid fever; straightened out the hair a little, washed the face and hands, worked the folds from its clothing, and Typhoid smiled gratefully upon me. I never could remember how, after dinner, I fell into a deep sleep, upon one of those lounges. At any rate, as the sun was going down, a hand pressed my head, and a voice said, "Wake up, sick one." The eyes opened as if by magic. Kneeling on the floor beside me was Ned, dressed in a clean pink and white shirt, thrown open loosely at the neck, sleeves rolled up above the elbow, boots drawn up over his pantaloons; face, neck, and arms brown, or rather, yellow as his hair. Typhoid turned her face to the wall, and wiped her eyes with the corner of her shawl. Phebe was in the door under her sun-bonnet, with flushed cheek. She looked astonished to find the "ice man" of sufficient consequence to bring us all the way from dear New England. How beautiful her face is!
