Mrs. Hawley trembled violently, and her pale face grew a shade paler, but she asked no questions, as she led the way to the bed. Her silence, at first, impressed the Doctor with the idea that she was accessory to her husband's guilt, and he watched her closely. No tear dimmed her eye, no sigh escaped her, yet she seemed painfully alive to the agony which her miserable husband endured, while the Doctor was dressing his wound.
"Do you think he will live, Doctor?" she enquired in a sort of hopeless, melancholy tone, as Dr. Goodrich was about to leave.
"It is an exceedingly critical case," replied the Doctor, "he may possibly recover."
"'Tween you and me," said daddy, coming between them, "I'd like to know how Prime got that shot?"
Poor Prime shook his head imploringly towards the Doctor, who went to him, and quieted his apprehensions in a few whispered words. "I don't care," said Prime, "only it would kill her to know it."
As they were passing the old brewery, when they were again on their way, a man came out and accosted them. "Hello, old Roarer," said he, addressing daddy, "how is Dr. DeWolf, this morning"
The old man straightened himself in his saddle, and preserved a dignified silence.
With an oath, the man commanded him to speak, but daddy rode calmly on; his indignation got the better of his cautiousness.
"I'll pound you to a jelly," shouted the man after him,
"I'll risk it," said daddy addressing the Doctor.