Dorothy heard a little—she could hear the rumble of the wagon, and she could feel the hard, rough, but kind hand of the woman who smoothed her brow in a motherly way. That in itself was enough to make her close her eyes and feel content.
What a power is the hand of woman! Even though it be hardened by the hardest kind of work it has in it the magic stroke of tenderness.
"Now, there," Samanthy would murmur, "soon you will be in bed. Then we will fix you all up nice."
Bed! Dorothy thought she was in bed—it was so much better than the stones, and that black water.
But she was getting her senses and with them came pain. Her head hurt, and the wagon jolted so that she was sore all over.
"We have only a few more trots, then we will be at home," soothed Samanthy. "After that you kin sleep in a feather bed—as soft as your own white hands."
She was smoothing those hands—they were very white, and very soft. What had turned Dorothy Dale's camping days into this tragedy? Where was Tavia? And what was to become of Dorothy?
Strange how illness melts the strongest! Dorothy just wanted to rest—to rest—yes, to rest!
At the dingy back door, the old horse stopped. The farmer and his wife almost carried Dorothy in, and the strain made her close her eyes again; made her forget everything.
After much talk between the farmer and his wife, and many contrary directions, Dorothy was finally enveloped in a nightdress that even Tavia in her palmiest days could not have anticipated. It was big, it was broad, it was long, and it was roomy!