But before a reply could be made there floated out upon the air a sweet voice singing an old familiar hymn. Instinctively every driver pulled off his rough hat, and bowed his shaggy head. It was a woman's voice they heard, low and tender. There was a pleading note in the singer's voice--the cry of a soul for help in trouble.
Little did Nellie realize as she sat by Dan's side this evening, and sang, that she had such attentive listeners. The past two days had been a time of much anxiety. When first she and her father had arrived, Dan did not know them. He was lying upon the bed, his little curly head resting upon the pillow as white as his own white face. Would he ever come out of that stupor? they asked each other time and time again as they sat and watched him. Often he talked, calling aloud for help, and pleading for someone to hurry. Now it was of Tony and again Nellie and Parson John. Occasionally he mentioned his father, and asked why he was so long in coming. The doctor stood by the bedside with an anxious face.
"Do you think he will recover?" Nellie asked.
"I can't say," was the reply. "He has been badly injured. But we should know soon one way or the other. This condition can't go on much longer."
It was hard for Nellie to persuade her father to take any rest. He would insist upon sitting by the bed, and holding Dan's hand.
"Poor, dear boy," he murmured. "Why did you do it? Why did you run such a risk for my sake?"
Once coming quietly into the room Nellie saw her father kneeling by the bedside. His lips were moving in silent prayer. In his heart a deep love had been formed for this little wounded lad. For months past the two had been much together, and the bond of affection had been strongly formed. At length Nellie had persuaded her father to take some rest. He had cast one long, searching look upon the boy's face, and then silently left the room. For some time Nellie sat by Dan's side watching his fitful breathing. One little hand lay outside the quilt. Would it ever work for her again? she wondered. It was a brown hand--the same hand which had reached over and drawn Tony from death. As she sat there the door was quietly pushed open, and Marion stood before her. Her eyes looked towards the bed with a questioning appeal. In her right hand she clutched a little rose. It was the first time she had been in the sick room, and on this evening while her mother was busy she had softly stolen away.
"Give dis to ittle sick boy," she said. "He like pitty woses."
"Come here, dear," Nellie replied, and as the child approached she took the flower, and placed the stem in Dan's doubled-up hand. She did it merely to please Marion, but it thrilled her own heart to behold the little maiden's sweet offering lying in that poor, nerveless fist. "God bless you, darling," she said, drawing Marion to her. "You love the sick boy, don't you?"
"Me love him," came the response, "an' me lore oo. Will Dod make him better?"