The wind rose and stirred about the camp like the rustle of mysterious garments, and blew fitfully the varied pipes in the pine boughs. The great logs on the fire were dropping to scarlet coals, but Barker hastened to pile on more fuel, though there was still sufficient warmth from the huge pile. And so the night wore on. Toward morning the sick man opened his eyes and fixed them steadily upon Drusy's face.
"Do you know me, Seth?" she asked, taking his hand within her own.
"Drusy, I ain't treated you well,—but you'll forgive me?" He spoke slowly and painfully, making the most of his feeble breath. "It's all over now, 'n' there's a little property left fur you. Squire Carter, down home, 'll tell you about it. It's in his hands."
"Oh, Seth," sobbed Drusy, "I have been wrong too. I wasn't half so patient 'n' forbearing as I ought to have been. I laid up things against you that I ought to have forgot. Forgive me."
He smiled, holding her hand with a faint pressure, then closed his eyes wearily and seemed to be sleeping.
Drusy choked down her sobs and watched him almost breathlessly. His breath grew fainter and fainter; he was quiet now, and seemed at peace.
The wind died away. The dawn marched, like some still procession, carrying flickering torches, into the woods. Tiny shafts of flame shot through the dark pine branches. There was a bustle and rustle as of light, hurrying feet. The clear clarion of the cocks sounded from distant clearings. And with the first rays of the sun the soul of the sick man departed into the Unknown.
"Ain't there nothin' I kin do fur ye 'baout the funeril, Drusy, or kerryin' news tew the mourners?" said Barker, as he was about to leave her at the door of the "tahvern," toward noon of the same day.
"No, thank ye, John; you're as kind as a brother; but his folks will attend to all these things. The doctor's notified them already. His father and two brothers are living down to Greenbush."
"Then I'll bid you good-by. I don't know when I shell see ye ag'in, Drusy."