CHAPTER VIII
IN THE TIME OF THE SICKNESS
TO be sure, Miles did not die, but for some days he lay in the sick-house, too ill to give much heed to what went on about him, or take thought for anything save his own misery. From a mass of hazy recollections one or two moments of that time afterward came back clearly.
One such memory was of a dim morning within the cheerless room, when, through the familiar patter, patter of rain on the oiled paper at the windows, he heard a latch creak somewhere and men tread cautiously. Turning weakly on his pillow, Miles looked to the door that led to the inner room, where the sick women lay, and he saw Goodman Cooke and Edward Dotey come forth, stepping carefully, and carrying on a stretcher between them something that was muffled up and motionless. He turned his face again to the wall, and neither thought nor reasoned of what it meant,—just listened to the lulling patter of the rain.
The other time of which he kept remembrance was a crisp night, when the whiff of wind that blew in at the outer door, as it was opened, smelt fresh and good, and Cooke, who came to tend the fire, piled the logs high. Dozing and waking, Miles watched through half-closed eyelids the crowded pallets about him, and the shadows that flickered up and down the rough walls. He must have slept a moment, but he roused up suddenly to see in the waning firelight Elder Brewster, who bent over him with a cup of drink. Leaning against the arm that supported him, Miles swallowed the draught obediently, and then the Elder, with more care than he usually had time to bestow on a single patient, laid him down and drew the coverings round him. "Poor little lad!" Miles heard him say, under his breath. "God comfort you!"
Miles wondered a little, but, too stupid greatly to heed what was said, soon dropped to sleep once more.
The crisis of his sickness must have passed on that night, for a day or two later he felt enough like himself to swallow with some relish a dish of broth. Ned Lister, packed out from the sick-house while still convalescent, to make room for others, fetched him the broth, and helped him eat, with a choking great spoon that made the process slow. Miles wondered whether Ned had grown thin or his clothes had grown baggy; perhaps 'twas a little of both.
Then, on the idle wonderment, followed more serious thought, and, speaking slowly and weakly, he asked, as Lister settled him in his pallet again: "Tell me, Ned, why has not my mother been here to nurse me, as she did you and the others?"
"Haven't you been well enough looked to, Miley?" questioned Ned, bending down to tie his shoestrings.
"'Tis just the men have cared for me."