The Reaper Whose Name Is Death

"Matthew--Matthew--what is the matter? Matthew, are you sick?"

It was Marilla who spoke, alarm in every jerky word. Anne
came through the hall, her hands full of white narcissus,--it
was long before Anne could love the sight or odor of white
narcissus again,--in time to hear her and to see Matthew
standing in the porch doorway, a folded paper in his hand,
and his face strangely drawn and gray. Anne dropped her flowers
and sprang across the kitchen to him at the same moment as
Marilla. They were both too late; before they could reach him
Matthew had fallen across the threshold.

"He's fainted," gasped Marilla. "Anne, run for Martin--
quick, quick! He's at the barn."

Martin, the hired man, who had just driven home from
the post office, started at once for the doctor, calling at
Orchard Slope on his way to send Mr. and Mrs. Barry over.
Mrs. Lynde, who was there on an errand, came too. They
found Anne and Marilla distractedly trying to restore
Matthew to consciousness.

Mrs. Lynde pushed them gently aside, tried his pulse,
and then laid her ear over his heart. She looked at their
anxious faces sorrowfully and the tears came into her eyes.

"Oh, Marilla," she said gravely. "I don't think--we can do
anything for him."

"Mrs. Lynde, you don't think--you can't think Matthew is-- is--"
Anne could not say the dreadful word; she turned sick and pallid.