"
Bradley did not reply. He heard a noise outside, and went out hastily
to see if his horse was standing where he had left him. Westerfelt
dragged himself from his chair and stood in front of the fire. He had
grown thinner during his confinement, and his clothes hung loosely on
him.
"You have been good to me," he repeated, in a low tone, "and I wish I
could do something to pay you back." She said nothing. She bent over
and felt the blanket to see if it were scorching, and then turned the
other side to the fire.
"Mrs. Bradley is a fine nurse," she said, presently. "She'll take good
care of you. Besides, she has a better claim on you than we--mother
and I--have; she has known you longer."
"I'll tell you the truth," he answered, after studying her face for a
moment in silence. "I'd really be willing to get hurt over again for
an excuse to live here like I have. I am the loneliest man that was
ever born--lonely is no name for it. In the dead hours of the night I
suffer agonies--you see, I am not a good sleeper. I have been as near
insanity as any man that ever lived out of an asylum.
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