"I have been trying to amuse him, and keep his thoughts away from his troubles," Miriam explained, overhearing Theodore's remark, whispered though it was, a blush showing through her clear, dusky skin. "I fear his hand gives him pain," she added, sympathetically.
"Yes, it does," Theodore acknowledged.
"It will soon heal," Miriam said, noting the anxiety on the father's face; "I have some knowledge of wounds, and have cured worse hurts than this by bathing with a simple preparation made from herbs. I have dressed his hand carefully, and now that you have come and his mind is more easy, I think he will sleep. You would like to stay with him the night?"
"I should," Mr. Barton replied, hesitatingly, "but I fear I shall be in the way, I—"
"No, no," she interrupted, hospitably, "we have a tent outside and my husband and I will sleep with the children to-night. Please don't think we mind. Here is milk if the little gentleman is thirsty, and do not fail to call me for anything you want."
She smiled at Theodore, and withdrew. A minute later they heard her voice talking to her husband outside, and then followed silence.
The inner division of the caravan where Theodore lay in bed was lighted by a small lantern, which was suspended from the roof. By its faint, yellow light Mr. Barton watched Theodore's uneasy movements and flushed countenance with growing anxiety. He did not know that his presence had a disturbing influence on his son, nor did he guess the grief and remorse that was in Theodore's heart, until the silence was broken by a sob, and Theodore's head suddenly disappeared beneath the bedclothes.
Mr. Barton was stricken with astonishment. He hardly knew how to act or what to say, being in ignorance of the cause of Theodore's grief. But presently Theodore's head reappeared, and the little boy said with an heroic effort to speak without crying,—
"It was all my fault. I know Jack won't say so, but it was. He didn't want to go to the Hermit's Cave, but I made him; and if he had died in a bog it would have been my fault, and his mother would have hated me, and so would you, father! I—I never should have been happy any more."
"What are you talking about, Theodore?" Mr. Barton questioned. "Come, my boy, tell me all about it. You know it is not possible that I could ever hate you, and as for my wife—why, she never hated anyone in her life, I'm certain. Why should you think it? You are not fair to her. I have often thought you must have been prejudiced against her, but I don't wish you to tell me by whom," he said hastily. "When I married her I hoped she would be a mother to you as I hoped to be a father to her little son, but you would not allow her to love you—from the first you were against her. She wanted to make up to you, as far as lay in her power, for the loss you sustained when your own dear mother died, but—"