"Mebby hit did safeguard ye, Cal," she whispered. "But I prayed fer ye thet night—I prayed hard fer ye."
The man closed his eyes and his features grew deeply sober.
"I'd love ter know ther pint-blank truth," he said next. "Am I a-goin' ter live or die?"
She struggled with the catch in her breath and hesitated so long with her hands clenched convulsively together in her lap that he, still lying with lids closed, construed her reticence into a death sentence and spoke again himself.
"Afore I come over hyar," he said, quietly, "I reckon hit wouldn't hev made no great differ ter me nuther way."
"Ye've got a chanst, Cal, and Uncle Jase 'lows," she bent closer and now she could command her voice, "thet ef ye wills ter live ... survigrous strong enough—yore chanst is a better one ... then ef ye ... jist don't keer."
His eyes opened and his lips smiled dubiously.
"I sometimes lays hyar wonderin' whether I truly does keer or not."
"What does ye mean, Cal?"
He paused and lay breathing as though hardly ready to face so vital an issue, then he explained: