"She is," replied the wife. The pair seemed to define each other's meaning in spite of the vagueness of their words.
"But she's awful weakish," whispered the wife. "We got to get her somewhere."
"Samanthy!" and the farmer's voice trembled, "mebby she the gal from the asylum! She that escaped! Let's load her up on the cart and fetch her home."
"You old skinflint! To cal'late on the half-dead girl," and she raised Dorothy's head tenderly. "But all the same she got to get somewhere, and ours is as near as any other house. Here, take hold," she put her arms about the helpless form. "Mercy on us! Lucky if she don't die before we get her there. Make that horse know he's to go. If that whip won't do, yank up a tree and let him have it."
The farmer trembled visibly as he helped put poor Dorothy in the wagon. If she could only have known!
The woman dragged off her apron and her jacket to make something of a pillow for the pretty yellow head, that lay so still. Suddenly Dorothy opened her eyes.
"As sure as you live," whispered Samanthy, "It is that girl from the san—sanitation! I saw her once out with the nurse, and this is her!"
"And there's a reward——"
"Shet up!" she snapped. "Lay still, dearie. You're awful weak and we're taking you home."
"Home!" murmured Dorothy in a dazed way.