The young man by the bedside knew that unless help speedily came death was not far. Bending over her, he drew his long, strong fingers across her burning forehead.
"How good that feels!" she said, half closing her eyes. "You got fingers soft as a baby's."
He brought some water, and not being able to find a cloth, used his hand, making it cool and brushing her face very gently.
For a few moments she seemed easier, murmuring her thanks. "Your maw," she said, opening her eyes, "how she must love you."
"I have no mother," he said huskily "—not in this world."
"Your woman, then," she said, breathing the words out with labor "—every man has his woman."
He made no answer.
Under the touch of his cool hand she seemed for a time to grow quiet. But the fever was burning higher in her veins, and soon she began to rock her head and utter incoherent words.
Then she opened her eyes again. "I'm skeered," she said. "I'm awful skeered. I hain't done nobody no harm—but I ain't never been religious."