Then he came back.
Westerfelt's hands were over his face, but he took them down when he
heard Washburn's step.
"Did--did she hurt herself when she fell?" he asked.
"No, she's all right." Washburn hesitated a moment, then he added:
"Mr. Westerfelt, you ought to go up to yore room an' try to rest some;
this night's been purty rough on you atter bein' down in bed so long."
Westerfelt rose silently and went through the office and up the stairs.
Chapter XIV
The dawn was breaking when Harriet Floyd stole up to her room under the
slant of the roof. She had no idea of trying to sleep. She sat down
on the side of the bed, shivering with cold. Through the small-paned
dormer window the gray light fell, bringing into vague relief the
different objects in the room. Down in the back yard the chickens were
flapping their wings and crowing lustily. Through the dingy glass she
could see the cow-lot, the sagging roof of the wagon-shed, the barn,
the ricks of hay, and the bare branches of the apple-trees still
holding a few late apples. Her shoes were wet with dew and her dress
and shawl hung limply about her.
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