A blaze of lightning and a rush of wind cause the man to cry out nervously, and then to exclaim, peevishly:
“Oh, I wish the morning would come; this is horrible!”
“Hush, Krutzer,” says the woman, in a low, hissing whisper; “you act like a fool.”
She bends forward and lays the sleeping child beside the dirty boy in the corner. Then she lifts her head and listens.
“Hush!” she whispers again; “they are astir outside; I hear them talking. Ah! some one is coming.”
“Mrs. Krutzer.”
It is the voice of Walter Parks, and this time the woman parts the tent flap and looks out.
“Is that you, Mr. Parks? I thought I heard voices out there. Is the storm doing any damage?”
“Not at present. Is Krutzer awake?”
She glances toward the form upon the pallet; it is shivering as with an ague. Then she says, unhesitatingly: