"This is the family skeleton," he said to the young men who watched the performance with curiosity. "We're ground under the heel of Daddy John."
Then he thrust his hand through the old servant's arm and they walked toward the wagon, their heads together, laughing like a pair of boys.
A few minutes later the camp had sunk to silence. The doctor was stowed away in the wagon and Miss Gillespie had drawn the tent flaps round the mystery of her retirement. David and Leff, too tired to pitch theirs, were dropping to sleep by the fire, when the girl's voice, low, but penetrating, roused them.
"Daddy John," it hissed in the tone children employ in their games of hide-and-seek, "Daddy John, are you awake?"
The old man, who had been stretched before the fire, rose to a sitting posture, wakeful and alert.
"Yes, Missy, what's the matter? Can't you sleep?"
"It's not that, but it's so hard to fix anything. There's no light."
Here it became evident to the watchers that Miss Gillespie's head was thrust out through the tent opening, the canvas held together below her chin. Against the pale background, it was like the vision of a decapitated head hung on a white wall.
"What is it you want to fix?" queried the old man.
"My hair," she hissed back. "I want to put it up in papers, and I can't see."