"Your prisoner has escaped you, Missy."
She tried to control herself, to beat down the surge of anger that shook her. Meeting him she implored with low-toned urgence:
"Father, you can't do it. Go back. You're too sick."
He pushed her gently away, his smile gone.
"Go back, Missy? The woman is suffering, dear."
"I know it, and I don't care. You're suffering, you're sick. She should have known better than to come. It's her fault, not ours. Because she was so foolhardy is no reason why you should be victimized."
His gravity was crossed by a look of cold, displeased surprise, a look she had not seen directed upon her since once in her childhood when she had told him a lie.
"I don't want to feel ashamed of you, Missy," he said quietly, and putting her aside went on to the wagon.
She turned away blinded with rage and tears. She had a dim vision of David and fled from it, then felt relief at the sight of Daddy John. He saw her plight, and hooking his hand in her arm took her behind the tent, where she burst into furious words and a gush of stifled weeping.
"No good," was the old man's consolation. "Do you expect the doctor to lie comfortable in his blanket when there's some one around with a pain?"