"Do you take the 'Angelina Dobbs' for a cemetery, Mr. Parmalee?" demanded Captain Dobbs, with asperity. "Who's that air corpse?"
"Come into the cabin and I'll tell you."
There he heard, in wonder and pity, the story.
"Poor creeter! Pretty as a picter, too! Who did the deed?"
"It looked like her husband," replied Mr. Parmalee. "He was as jealous as a Turk, anyway."
"She is not dead!" exclaimed Mrs. Denover; "her heart flutters. Oh! pray leave me alone with her; I think I know what to do."
The men quitted the cabin. Mrs. Denover removed her daughter's clothing and examined the wound. It was deep and dangerous looking, but not necessarily fatal—she knew that, and she had had considerable experience during her rough life with John Thorndyke. She stanched the flow of blood, bathed and dressed the wound, and finally the dark eyes opened and looked vaguely in her face.
"Who are you? Where am I?" very feebly.
"I am your nurse," she said, tremulously, "and you are with friends who love you."
"Ah! I remember." A look of intense anguish crossed her face. "You are my mother!"