He
looked at it steadily, wondering if it could be part of the strange
dreams which had beset him in sleep. As the room gradually became
lighter, he saw that it was a woman. Mrs. Floyd, he thought--but no,
the figure was slighter. It was Harriet. She had taken her mother's
place just before daybreak. Her head hung down, but she was not
asleep. Presently she looked up, and catching his eyes, rose and came
to him.
"How do you feel now?" She touched his forehead with her soft, cool
hand.
"I'm all right; I'll be up to breakfast."
"No, you won't; you must not; it would kill you."
"Pshaw! That pin-scratch?" He playfully struck his breast near the
wound. "He'd have to cut deeper and rip wider to do me up."
She stifled a cry and caught his hand.
"You must not be so foolish." She started to turn away, but his
fingers closed over hers.
"I'm sorry. I'll mind what you say, because you've been so good to me.
It seems mighty queer--Toot Wambush's girl takin' care of the very man
he tried to wipe off of the face of creation. No wonder he--"
She twisted her hand from his clasp.
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