Chapter XXXVII. The Reaper Whose Name Is Death

           Matthew—Matthew—whatisthematter?Matthew,areyousick?”

           ItwasMarillawhospoke,alarmineveryjerkyword.Annecamethroughthehall,herhandsfullofwhitenarcissus,—itwaslongbeforeAnnecouldlovethesightorodorofwhitenarcissusagain,—intimetohearherandtoseeMatthewstandingintheporchdoorway,afoldedpaperinhishand,andhisfacestrangelydrawnandgray.AnnedroppedherflowersandsprangacrossthekitchentohimatthesamemomentasMarilla.Theywerebothtoolate;beforetheycouldreachhimMatthewhadfallenacrossthethreshold.

           “He’sfainted,”gaspedMarilla.“Anne,runforMartin—quick,quick!He’satthebarn.”

           Martin,thehiredman,whohadjustdrivenhomefromthepostoffice,startedatonceforthedoctor,callingatOrchardSlopeonhiswaytosendMr.andMrs.Barryover.Mrs.Lynde,whowasthereonanerrand,cametoo.TheyfoundAnneandMarilladistractedlytryingtorestoreMatthewtoconsciousness.

           Mrs.Lyndepushedthemgentlyaside,triedhispulse,andthenlaidherearoverhisheart.Shelookedattheiranxiousfacessorrowfullyandthetearscameintohereyes.

           “Oh,Marilla,”shesaidgravely.“Idon’tthink—wecandoanythingforhim.”

           “Mrs.Lynde,youdon’tthink—youcan’tthinkMatthewis—is—”Annecouldnotsaythedreadfulword;sheturnedsickandpallid.

           “Child,yes,I’mafraidofit.Lookathisface.Whenyou’veseenthatlookasoftenasIhaveyou’llknowwhatitmeans.”

           AnnelookedatthestillfaceandtherebeheldthesealoftheGreatPresence.