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 later the machine came to a noisy halt and was choked into silence. At that moment, in the sweep of the head-light, Peter saw Viny Berry, one of Nan's younger sisters, coming up from Niggertown's public well, carrying two buckets of water.

Viny was hurrying, plashing the water over the sides of her buckets. The importance of her mission was written in her black face.

“She's awful thirsty,” she called to Peter in guarded tones. “Nan called me to fetch some fraish water fum de well.”

Peter took the water that had been brought from the semi-cesspool at the end of the street. Viny hurried across the street to home and to bed. With the habitual twinge of his sanitary conscience, Peter considered the water in the buckets.

“We'll have to boil this,” he said to the doctor.

“Boil it?” repeated Jallup, blankly. Then, he added: “Oh, yes—boil. Certainly.”

A repellent odor of burned paper, breathed air, and smoky lights filled the close room. Nan had lighted another lamp and now the place was discernible in a dull yellow glow. In the corner lay a half-burned wisp of paper. Nan herself stood by the mound on the bed, putting straight the quilts that her patient had twisted awry.

“She sho am bad, Doctor,” said the colored woman, with big eyes.