but what or why he knew not. Suddenly he called
to her as if from his sleep, "Have I killed some one?" and there was
horror in his voice.

"No, no, Doctor Thryng. You been nigh about killed yourself. Oh, why
didn't I send for a doctor who could do you right! Bishop Towers won't
know anything about this."

"What have you done?"

"I sent for Bishop Towers."

"Who did me up like this?"

She was silent and, rising quickly, stepped out on the porch, her cheeks
flaming crimson. Yesterday in her terror and frenzy she could have done
anything; but now--with his eyes fixed on her face so intently--she
could not reply nor tell how, alone, she had stripped him to the waist
and bound him about with the homespun cotton of her dress to stanch the
bleeding before hurrying down the mountain for help.

Instinctively she had done the right thing and had done it well, but
now she could not talk about it. David tried to call after her, but she
had gone around into the next room and taken the baby from his cradle,
where he was wailing his demands for attention. Azalea had gone out for
a moment, and Aunt Sally "lowed the' wa'n't no use sp'ilin him by takin'
him up every time he fretted fer hit. Hit would do him good to holler
an' stretch." So she sat still and smoked.

Cassandra walked up and down the porch, comforted by the feeling of the
child in her arms. The small head bobbed this way and that until she
pressed it against her cheek and held him close, and he gradually
settled down on her bosom, his face tucked softly in the curve of her
neck, and slept. She heard David speaking her name and went to him, but
he only looked up at her and smiled.

"I'm sorry I left you alone," she said tenderly; "I'll call Aunt Sally."

"No--wait--I only want--to look at you."

She stood swaying her lithe body to rock the sleeping child. David
thought he never had seen anything lovelier. How serious his wounds
were, he did not know. But one thing he knew well, and to that one
thought he clung. He wanted Cassandra where he could see her all the
time. He wished she would talk to him, and not let him lose
consciousness, relapsing into the horror of a strange dream that
continued to haunt him.

"Do you love that baby?" he asked, his voice faint and high.

"He's a right nice baby."

"I say--do you love him?"

"Why--I reckon I do. Don't try to move that way, Doctah. You may not be
done right, and you'll bleed again. Oh, we don't know--we are so