She let him take it and hold it while she sang “Rest for the weary,—rest for you.” It was like a lullaby such as mothers sing to their fretful infants, and, soothed by the soft, low tones, he fell asleep, still holding Elithe’s hand, which she could not release from his grasp. If she tried to do so he stirred at once and held it closer. Thus an hour passed, when he awoke, burning with fever and delirium and calling for Elithe to bathe his head or do something to keep him from the pit. Only Elithe could quiet him, and it became evident that she must stay by him if they kept him in bed. Once he started to get up, but Elithe was equal to the emergency.
“Lie down,” she said, with a stamp of her foot, and he lay down, and, looking at her slily from under the bed clothes, said to her: “Got some of the old woman in you, haven’t you?”
She did not know what old woman he meant, nor did she care. She had conquered him, and, with Lizy Ann nodding in a chair opposite her and Rob sleeping on a pillow and blanket on the floor beside her, she sat through the longest night she had ever known. Occasionally Bill Stokes looked in to see if anything were wanted. Once when he did so Pennington lifted his head and said: “All quiet on the Potomac. Don’t you worry.” And again, when Stokes came, he waved his hand authoritatively, saying: “Go away; go away; Elithe is running the ranch and running it well. Arn’t you, Elithe?”
She did not answer, but looked toward the rain-stained window, with an inexpressible longing for some sign of day. It came at last, and almost before it was fairly light her father opened the door and walked in. He and his wife had passed an anxious and nearly sleepless night, although feeling sure that the storm which had swept over Samona was the cause of their children’s absence. That they would be safe in the camp and comparatively comfortable they knew, but with the first streak of dawn Roger was on his way to Deep Gulch. Bill Stokes was the first one he met, learning from him all the particulars of the stranger and what Elithe had done for him.
“He’d of cut loose and run yellin’ over the plains if it hadn’t been for her, I b’lieve my soul,” he said, as he led the way to his cabin and opened the door.
With a cry of joy Elithe threw herself into her father’s arms, sobbing like a child, now that the strain was over and help had come. The cry awoke Mr. Pennington, to whom, after soothing Elithe, Roger gave his attention.
“This is father,” Elithe said, proudly, holding her father’s arm.
For an instant the stranger regarded him with a comical twinkle in his eyes and said: “The parson? Another Hansford? The plot thickens, don’t it?”
Then his mind seemed to recover its balance, and, putting out his hand, he said, very courteously: “I am glad to see you, Mr. Hansford. I am afraid your daughter has had a sorry night, but she has done me a world of good. I believe I should have died without her. Will you sit down? Our quarters are small and not the best ventilated in the world.”
Roger sat down, while Elithe went out into the fresh morning air, which each moment grew fresher and warmer as the sun came over the hills. All traces of the storm were gone, except where pools of water were standing in the road and rain drops were falling from the trees. Mrs. Stokes’s mother was preparing breakfast, and, attracted by the odor of coffee, Elithe walked that way.