Mackenzie’s day clouded; his sickness fell over him again, taking the faint new savor out of life. Joan was indifferent; she did not care. Then hope came on its white wings to excuse her.
“Is she sick?” he inquired.
“Who––Mary?”
“Joan. Is she all right?”
“Well, if I was married to her I’d give up hopes of ever bein’ left a widower. That girl’s as healthy as a burro––yes, and she’ll outlive one, I’ll bet money, and I’ve heard of ’em livin’ eighty years down in Mexico.”
Dad did not appear to be cognizant of Mackenzie’s weakness. According to the old man’s pathology a man was safe when he regained his head out of the delirium of fever. All he needed then was cheering up, and Dad did not know of any better way of doing that than by talking. So he let himself go, and Mackenzie shut his eyes to the hum of the old fellow’s voice, the sound beating on his ears like wind against closed doors.
Suddenly Dad’s chatter ceased. The silence was as welcome as the falling of a gale to a man at sea in an open boat. Mackenzie heard Dad leaving the wagon in cautious haste, and opened his eyes to see. Rabbit was beside him with a bowl of savory-smelling broth, which she administered to him with such gentle deftness that Mackenzie could not help believing Dad had libeled her in his story of the accident that had left its mark upon her face.
Rabbit would not permit her patient to talk, denying him with uplifted finger and shake of head when he attempted it. She did not say a word during her visit, although 236 her manner was only gentle, neither timid nor shy.
Rabbit was a short woman, turning somewhat to weight, a little gray in her black hair, but rather due to trouble than age, Mackenzie believed. Her skin was dark, her face bright and intelligent, but stamped with the meekness which is the heritage of women of her race. The burn had left her marked as Dad had said, the scar much lighter than the original skin, but it was not such a serious disfigurement that a man would be justified in leaving her for it as Dad had done.