"If it was me that was doin' it," said Sarah, "I'd send for the
doctor."

"Well, but," Maggie protested, "she might be mad."

"If it was me, I'd let her be mad."

"Well, then, why don't you?" Maggie retorted.

"Send for him?" Sarah said airily impersonal. "Oh, it's none of my
business."

"Did you even it to her?" Maggie asked in a worried way.

"I did. I says, 'You're sick, Mrs. Richie,' I says.--She looked like
she was dead--'Won't I tell George to run down and ask Dr. King to
come up?' I says." "An" what did she say?" Maggie asked absently. She
knew what Mrs. Richie had said, because this was the fourth time she
and Sarah had gone over it.

"'No,' she says, 'I don't want the doctor. There's nothing the
matter.' And she like death! An' I says, 'Will you see Mr. Pryor,
ma'am, before he goes?' And she says, 'No,' she says; 'tell Mr. Pryor
that I ain't feelin' very well.' An' I closed the shutters again, an'
come down-stairs. But if it was me, I'd send for Dr. King. If she
ain't well enough to see her own brother--and him just as kind!"--
Sarah put her hand into the bosom of her dress for a dollar bill--
"Look at that! And you had one, too, though he's hardly ever set eyes
on you, If she ain't well enough to see him, she's pretty sick."