As she said the last words she uttered a long wail, threw her arms above her head and plunged forward over the dead body.
Joshua Peniman lifted her tenderly and bore her in his arms to their own wagon.
All night they worked over her, with every remedy at their command, but before the grey dawn of morning they knew that she would join her husband before many hours.
Heat, exhaustion, terror, the strain of agony and fear, the shock to an already weakened and overstrained heart, were more than nature could bear.
Shortly before daylight she opened her eyes and looked up into the face of Hannah Peniman, who bent above her.
"Who are you?" she asked faintly. "Where do you come from?"
"Our name is Peniman, Hannah and Joshua Peniman. And these are our children. We come from the Muskingum Valley in Ohio."
"You are Quakers?"
"Yes. My husband was a leader in the Society of Friends."
"Then you are good—good and kind, I know," she whispered brokenly. Then clutching Hannah Peniman's hand and fixing her beautiful, burning eyes upon her face she hurried on: "My child—my little Nina—what will become of her? I am going—going to Lee—I could not live without him. Our name is Carroll. My husband was Lee Carroll—a writer—and I am Marian Carroll. The little girl's name is Nina. Will you take her—will you take her with you to the nearest Mission? I know it is asking a good deal with your big family—but you will do it—I know you will do it—for my poor little orphaned child. I will explain to her—give her papers and addresses and all—and they can send her home from there. Our people are all—all——"