It was the night following Thanksgiving, and Patty had carried out her intention of coming home in the morning. As she walked over to Mrs. Brown's, she seemed to herself to be free from all bodily fatigue, so strongly did her inner excitement buoy her up. She resolutely endeavored to put away all thought of Tom Putnam and the Smithers women; but the consciousness of painful suspicion flowed as a bitter undercurrent through all her musings.
The sick man was unusually tractable that night.
"I'm afeared, Miss Patience," his wife said tearfully, "I'm afeared he's goin' for it. He hasn't swored at me but twice to-day, and one of them his gruel was too hot."
"It was only your soothing influence," Patty answered dispiritedly. "You can go home, and go to bed. I'll watch with him until Sol comes at eleven."
Left alone, the watcher seated herself in the shadow, and plunged anew into distracting and painful reveries; but she quickly was called from them by the sick man.
"I'd like to ask yer to do somethin'," he said feebly.
"What is it?" she asked, going to the bedside.
"Frank Breck's been here," he answered, "tryin' to get my pocket-book; and the women-folks are awful curious too."
One of his first requests on recovering consciousness had been for this pocket-book, which since he had guarded beneath his pillow.