"Bless God, honey! Bless God!" repeated Aunt Maria. Nevertheless she bestirred herself.
When the two men knocked on the door a sleepy voice bade them enter. All was peace within the room. Aunt Maria struggled to her feet assiduously knuckling her eyes; Pen lay in bed with the bedclothes to her chin, her eyes languourous as if but just opened.
"You see," said Doctor Hance. "It is just as I told you. Everything is all right."
Pendleton's feelings were mixed. He was relieved, and as soon as he was relieved he remembered his suspicions. In order to divert attention from Aunt Maria whose delineation of sleepiness was rather melodramatic, Pen smiled at her father and murmured that she felt better.
He looked at her queerly. He could no longer contain his chagrin. "He's gone!" he said.
Pen, aware that the doctor was keenly observing her, made her eyes wide. "Gone?" she echoed. "Where?"
"Pushed off in his canoe somewhere."
"We'll get him in the morning," the doctor added, watching her still. "He can't get far."
Pen made her face an indifferent blank.
Pendleton was sent out of the room while the doctor made his examination. Hance was a frowsy old man with a rough tongue and a compassionate irascible eye. Everybody quarreled with him and depended on him as on a tower. He had no illusions left about mankind, but he gave all his strength to tending them. Pen dreaded being left alone with him. However he said no more about the escaped canoeist. From the character of his grunts as he sounded her she knew she had not deceived him at all. When the door closed behind him she flew to it to hear what he would say to her father.