He came softly to the bedside and looked down at his wife. His face was gentle and puzzled.
“Reckon you're better, dearie,” he said in a curious harsh toneless voice.
The sick woman moved her head feebly in the direction of the stool and he lifted the pannikin of water to her lips.
“Cold enough?” he asked, and his wife nodded. “Abe fetches it as reg'lar as a clock.”
“Where's Abe?” she asked, and her voice for all its feebleness had a youthful music in it.
“I heerd him sayin' he was goin' down to the crick to cotch a fish. He reckoned you'd fancy a fish when you could eat a piece. He's a mighty thoughtful boy, our Abe. Then he was comin' to read to you. You'd like that, dearie?”
The sick woman made no sign. Her eyes were vacantly regarding the doorway.
“I've got to leave you now. I reckon I'll borrow the Dawneys' sorrel horse and ride into Gentryville. I've got the young hogs to sell, and I'll fetch back the corn-meal from Hickson's. Sally Hickson was just like you last fall, and I want to find out from Jim how she got her strength up.”
He put a hand on her brow, and felt it cool.
“Glory! You're mendin' fast, Nancy gal. You'll be well in time to can the berries that the childern's picked.” He fished from below the bed a pair of skin brogues and slipped them on his feet. “I'll be back before night.”