When Daddy John emerged from the tent she leaped to her feet.
"Well?" she said with low eagerness.
"Go back to him. He wants you," answered the old man. "I've got something to do for him."
He made no attempt to touch her, his words and voice were brusque, yet David saw that she responded, softened, showed the ragged wound of her pain to him as she did to no one else. It was an understanding that went beneath all externals. Words were unnecessary between them, heart spoke to heart.
She returned to the tent and sunk on the skin beside her father. He smiled faintly and stretched a hand for hers, and her fingers slipped between his, cool and strong against the lifeless dryness of his palm. She gave back his smile bravely, her eyes steadfast. She had no desire for tears, no acuteness of sensation. A weight as heavy as the world lay on her, crushing out struggle and resistance. She knew that he was dying. When they told her there was no doctor in the camp her flickering hope had gone out. Now she was prepared to sit by him and wait with a lethargic patience beyond which was nothing.
He pressed her hand and said: "I've sent Daddy John on a hunt. Do you guess what for?"
She shook her head feeling no curiosity.
"The time is short, Missy."
The living's instinct to fight against the acquiescence of the dying prompted her to the utterance of a sharp "No."
"I want it all arranged and settled before it's too late. I sent him to see if there was a missionary here."