ed by the
hardest kind of work it has in it the magic stroke of tenderness.

"Now, there," Samanthy would murmur, "soon you will be in bed. Then we
will fix you all up nice."

Bed! Dorothy thought she was in bed--it was so much better than the
stones, and that black water.

But she was getting her senses and with them came pain. Her head hurt,
and the wagon jolted so that she was sore all over.

"We have only a few more trots, then we will be at home," soothed
Samanthy. "After that you kin sleep in a feather bed--as soft as your
own white hands."

She was smoothing those hands--they were very white, and very soft.
What had turned Dorothy Dale's camping days into this tragedy? Where
was Tavia? And what was to become of Dorothy?

Strange how illness melts the strongest! Dorothy just wanted to
rest--to rest--yes, to rest!

At the dingy back door, the old horse stopped. The farmer and his wife
almost carried Dorothy in, and the strain made her close her eyes
again; made her forget everything.

After much talk between the farmer and his wife, and many contrary
directions, Dorothy was finally enveloped in a nightdress that even
Tavia in her palmiest days could not have anticipated. It was big, it
was broad, it was long, and it was roomy!

But it was sweet and clean, and Dorothy closed her eyes directly after
Samanthy Hobbs put to her lips a drink of catnip tea!

"She's the girl from the asylum," whispered the farmer's wife. "Jest
keep still and we will git her back all right."

CHAPTER XIII

THE SAD AWAKENING

Such a long, lovely sleep, on that fluffy feather bed! Everything so
sweet, so wholesome, even in her half-conscious state Dorothy knew
that things about her were right--that they were "homey."

Then the smooth-roughness of that woman's hands, the life of them
seemed to cry out comfort, while the harsh flesh told another story.

Twice Dorothy had opened her eyes over a pan of chicken broth. She had
to take it, and she was glad of it.

Then, outside in the hall room, that was really nothing more nor less
than a landing for the unrailed stairs, she thought she could hear the
old-fashioned voice of a very old-fashioned man--he wanted to fetch
her something, and he didn't seem to care just what.

"Couldn't I git her a hunk of thet sausage that we brung home?" he
begged.

"You loon," was his answer. "Are you set on murder? Do you want to
kill her outright?"

This repressed his enthusiasm. "N