“Betty Berry—Betty Berry, I am coming!”
She knelt in the wet leaves beside the robe ... her thoughts turned back to the night—the goodness of the men, their tender voices.... There was a calling up in the dusk among the trees. Yes, she must lie at his door. Men were good; the lock alone had hurt her. His Guardian had put it there.... Upward she crawled, dragging the robe.
“Yes, you are coming!” she answered. Always when the cold rain roused her, she would answer, and crawl a little farther with the robe. At the door at last, she lay down beneath it....
Still again his calling roused her. It was darker—but not yet night....
“Betty Berry—Betty Berry, I am coming!”
It was nearer.
“I knew you would let me in,” she tried to say, and then—voices.... It seemed as if the porter of the Old South had come.... His voice lulled her, and his smile was the glow of the home-hearth.
8
She was lying upon the single narrow bed.... Something long ago had been premonitive of this. Morning’s mind, too, caught up the remembrance of Moto-san and the Japanese Inn.... He watched. Sometimes he said with all his will that she must not die. She could not die, when his will was dominant, but he was exhausted; his will-power flagged frequently.
All day yesterday in the train he had held her in his mind—sent his calls to her across the miles. From different stations he had telegraphed to Jake at Hackensack, to Jethro at the post-office, and to his neighbor, the dairyman, who had a telephone. Jethro had been the first to reach the cabin, but it was nearly dusk then. The others were quick to appear. Jethro found her at the door, partly covered in the furry robe. That robe crowned him in Morning’s mind. They had broken in the door, and lit the fire. Morning reached the cabin at nine. Jethro spoke of a doctor.