Miss Clitheroe dawned upon us with this. She came forth from her lodge, fresh and full of cheer.
Brent stopped looking about for some one. The One had entered upon the scene.
I dipped for her also that poetry in a tin pot.
“This,” said she, “is finer balm than the enchanted cup of Comus; never did lips touch a draught
‘To life so friendly, or so cool to thirst.’
To-day my life is worthy of this nepenthe. My dear friend, this is the first night of peaceful, hopeful rest I have had, since my poor father was betrayed into his delusion. Thank you and God for it!”
And again her eyes filled with happy tears, and she knelt by her patient. While she was tenderly and deftly renewing the bandages, Armstrong stood by, and inspected the wound in silence. Presently he walked off and called me to help him with our camp-fire.
“Pretty well ploughed up, that arm of his’n,” said he.
“I have seen amputation performed for less.”
“Then I’m dum glad there’s no sawbones about. I don’t believe Nater means a man’s leg or arm to go, until she breaks the solid bone, so that it ain’t to be sot nohow. But what do you allow to do? Lamm ahead or squat here?”