"Yes: it's me, Flaxie." He crossed the room and knelt by the bed. She flung her arms round his neck.
"O pappy! pappy! I wanted you. Oh, my poor mamma! O pap, I don't like her," she whispered, indicating the nurse with her eyes. "O pap, I hate to think of mother lying there in the snow—an' Bert—where is Bert, pap? Perhaps he's in the blizzard too—"
"She's a little flighty," said the nurse in her matter-of-fact tone.
Anson groaned as he patted the pale cheek of the sufferer.
"Don't worry, Flaxie; Bert's all right. He'll come home soon. Why don't you send for the doctor?" he said to the nurse.
"He'll be here soon. Don't worry over that," indicating Flaxen, who was whispering to herself. "They of'n do that."
"Do you s'pose I can find my folks if I go back to Norway?" she said to Anson a little after.
"Yes: I guess so, little one. When you get well, we'll try an' see."
"Perhaps if I found my aunt she'd look like mamma, an' I'd know then how mamma looked, wouldn't I? Perhaps if the wheat is good this year we can go back an' find her, can't we?" Then her words melted into a moan of physical pain, and the nurse said:
"Now I guess you'd better go an' see if you can't hurry the doctor up. Yes: now he's got to go," she went on to Flaxen, drowning out her voice and putting her imploring hands back upon the bed.