"Don't be afraid," he said huskily. "What is there to fear?"
"Hell—hell," she moaned, "I've heerd it preached."
Abe Lincoln started to say something reassuring, but again her mind was wandering. When she spoke now, it was of the baby lying on the back of the bed. After opening her eyes and steadying them, she half moaned, "He's hungry, the fever's dried me up—can you feed the baby? There's milk—there's milk——"
She did not finish the sentence. It seemed hard for her to speak.
"I'll find the milk and feed the baby. Don't worry," and he brushed her hot arms and hands and forehead with his big, wet hands.
Again she sank back into that restless drowsiness broken by moans and incoherent mutterings. Sometimes there was a sharp outcry, and always the labored breathing, growing ever faster and faster.
Abe Lincoln went to the door and looked anxiously up at the sun, and from the sun, down the roadway.
When he returned to the bed the woman wanted to speak again. She opened her eyes. At first there was only a glassy stare, but with an effort she gathered her vision and, fixing her eyes on the homely face by her side, she said with words that seemed beaten out by some raging inward force, "Abe Linkum, kin you pray?"
"Yes," he answered without hesitation, "what's prayer but callin' on God when there ain't no one else can help?—yes."
"Pray," she pleaded—"kneel down and pray for me—I'm—burnin' up."