She groped her way over to the door. It was bolted, and the windows were securely fastened.
The awful truth forced itself into her fagged brain. She was a prisoner! Why? What had she done? Wasn't that woman kind? And did not the man go to the spring for water? She heard him say so, and he was a feeble old man. Why was she locked—barred in that smothering attic room?
She picked up a heavy block that lay near, and with it rapped vigorously on the bare floor.
A shuffling of feet on the stairs told that she had been heard, and presently the not unkindly face of Samanthy Hobbs made its way into the room.
"Why am I locked in?" gasped Dorothy. "Why do you not let me go back to my friends?"
"Hush there, now, dearie," and she smoothed the hand that lay idly on the red and white quilt, as Dorothy stood beside the bed. "You'll be all right. Don't you go and get bothered. We've sent fer the doctor, and when he comes, he'll fetch you right home to your maw. But you have got to keep quiet, or else the fever will set in, and then there's no tellin'. I told Josiah that we would do fer you like as if you was our'n, but you must not talk, dearie. You must be mournful still."
"WHY AM I LOCKED IN?" GASPED DOROTHY.
Dorothy Dale's Camping Days Page 116
Dorothy looked keenly into the face that leaned over her. What did it mean? Whom did they take her to be?
"Do you know who I am?" she ventured.