Thryng lay in Hoke Belew's cabin,—not in the one great living-room where were the fireplace and the large bed and the tiny cradle, but in the smaller addition at the side, entered only from the porch which extended along the front of both parts.

He still lay on the litter upon which he had been placed to carry him down the mountain,—an improvised thing made by stretching quilts across two poles of slender green pines. The litter was placed on low trestles to raise it from the floor, and close to the open door to give him air. David had not regained consciousness since his hurt, but lay like one dead, with closed eyes and blanched lips; yet they knew him to be living.

Cassandra sat beside him alone. All night long she had been there unsleeping, hollow-eyed, and worn with tearless grief. She had done all she knew how to do. Before going for help she had removed his clothing and bound about his body strips torn from her dress to stop the bleeding of his shoulders where the silver bullet had torn across them. How the ball had missed giving a mortal wound was like a miracle.

Hoke Belew had tried to arouse him, but had failed. At intervals, during the night, Cassandra had managed to drop a little whiskey between his lips with a spoon, and she had bathed him with the stimulant over heart and lungs, and chafed his hands, and had tried to warm his feet by rubbing them and wrapping them up between jugs of hot water. She had bathed his bruised head and cut away the softly curling hair from the spot where his head had struck the rock. What more she could do she knew not, and now she sat at his side still chafing his hands and waiting for Hoke Belew's return.

Hoke had gone to the station to telegraph for Bishop Towers. Fortunately, as the hotel was so soon to be opened and the busy summer life to begin, the operator was already there.

Azalea, in the great room, was preparing dinner, stopping now and then to touch her baby's cradle, or to stoop a moment over the treasure therein. Aunt Sally sat in the doorway smoking her cob pipe and telling grewsome tales of how she had "seen people hurted that-a-way and nevah come out en hit." Sally had ridden over to give help and sympathy, but Cassandra had said she would watch alone. She had eaten nothing since the day before, only sipping the coffee Azalea had brought her.

It was one of those breathless hours before a rain when not a leaf stirs; even the birds were silent. Cassandra tried once more to give David a few drops of the whiskey, and this time it seemed as if he swallowed a little. She thought she saw his eyelids quiver, and her heart pounded suffocatingly in her breast. She dropped beside him on her knees and once again tried to give him the only stimulant they had. This time she was sure he took it, and, still kneeling there, she bowed her head and pressed her lips upon the hand she had been chafing. Did it move or not? She could not tell, and again she sat gazing in the still, white face. Oh, the suspense! Oh, the joy that was agony! If this were truly the awakening and meant life! In her intensity of longing for some further signs she drew slowly nearer and nearer, until at last her lips touched his. Then in shame she hid her face in the quilt at his side and, weak with the exhaustion of her long anguish and fasting and watching, she wept the first tears—tears of hope she was not strong enough to bear. As she thus knelt, weeping softly, his fluttering eyelids lifted and he saw her there, and felt the quivering hand beneath his head.

Not understanding how or why this should be, he waited perfectly still, trying to gather his thoughts. A great peace was in his heart—a peace and content so sweet he did not wish to move. Lingering beneath this content, he held a dim memory of a great anger—a horror of anger, when he saw red, and hungered for blood. Vaguely it seemed to him now that all was as he wished it to be with Cassandra near. He liked to feel her hand beneath his head and her other hand upon his own, and her heavy bronze hair so close, and he closed his eyes once more to shut out all else, for the room was strange to him—this raftered place all whitewashed from ceiling to floor.

He had forgotten what had happened, but Cassandra was there, and he was content. Something had touched his lips and brought him back, he was sure of that, and his weakly beating heart stirred to more vigorous action. He turned his head a little, a very little, toward her, and his fingers closed about her hand to hold it there. She lifted her head then, and they looked into each other's eyes, a long, deep look. Later, when Azalea entered, she found them both sleeping, Cassandra's hand still beneath his head, his face pressed to her soft hair and his free arm flung about her.

Azalea stole away and hurried with the news to old Sally, who also crept in and looked on them and stole away.

"Yas, she sure have saved his life," said Sally. "Heap o' times they nevah do come out en that thar kin' o' sleep. I done seed sech before."

"Ef he have come to hisself, you reckon I bettah wake 'em up and give her a leetle hot milk? She hain't eat nothin' sence yestiday."

"Naw, leave 'em be. No body nevah hain't starved in his sleep yit, I reckon."

"He hain't eat nothin', neithah. He sure have been bad hurted."

The two women sat in the large room and talked in low tones, while at intervals Azalea crept to the door and looked in on them.

At last the baby wailed out with lusty cry, which sounded through the stillness of the house and roused Cassandra, but as she lifted her head, David clung to her and drew her cheek to his lips.

"Are you hurt?" he murmured. In some strange way he had confused matters, and thought it was she who had been shot.

"It's not me that's hurt," she said tenderly.

Azalea hurried away and returned with the warm milk she had prepared for Cassandra, who took it and held it to David's lips.

"Drink it, Doctah. She won't touch anything till you do."

Then he obeyed, slowly drinking it all, his eyes fixed on Cassandra's as a child looks up to his mother. As she rose, he held her with his free hand.

"What is it? How long—" His voice sounded thin and weak. "Strange—I can't lift this arm at all. Tell me—"

"Seems like I can't. When you are strong again, I will."

Feebly he tried to raise himself. "Don't, oh, don't, Doctah Thryng. If you bleed again, you'll die," she wailed.

"Sit near me."

She drew a low chair and sat near him, as she had through the slow and anxious hours, and again he drowsed off, only to open his eyes from time to time as if to assure himself that she was still there. Again Azalea brought her milk and white beaten biscuit, hot and sweet, and Cassandra ate. When David opened his eyes to look at her, she smiled on him, but would not let him talk to her.

Nevertheless his mind was busy trying to understand why he was lying thus, and dimly the events of the last few days came back to him, shadowy and confused. When he looked up and saw her smile, his heart was satisfied, but when he closed his eyes again, a strange sense of tragedy settled down upon him, 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 ignorant—Azalie and me—"

He smiled. "Nothing matters now," he said.

They heard voices, and she looked out from the doorway. "It's Hoke. They've sent old Doctor Bartlett. I'm so glad. Aunt Sally, I reckon they'll need hot water. Get some ready, will you?"

"Cassandra, Cassandra!" called David, almost irritably.

She came back to him.

"Where are they?"

"Down the road a piece. I'm glad. You'll be done right now."

"Stoop to me." She obeyed, and the free arm caught and held her, then, as the voices drew near, released her with glowing eyes and burning cheeks.

She stepped out on the porch to meet them, half hiding her face behind the babe in her arms, and old Dr. Bartlett, as he looked on her with less prejudiced and more experienced eyes, thought he too never had seen anything lovelier.

"He's awake," said Cassandra quietly to Hoke, and the two men went to David. She carried the child back and asked Aunt Sally to wait on them, while she sat down in a low splint rocker, clinging to the little one and listening, with throbbing nerves, to the voices in the room beyond.

When Hoke came out to them a moment later, Azalea began eagerly to question him, but Cassandra was silent.

"Doctah says we bettah tote 'im ovah to his own place to-day. Aunt Sally 'lows she can bide thar fer a while an' see him well again."

"You hain't goin' to 'low that, be ye, Hoke? Hit mount look like we wa'n't willin' fer him to bide 'long of us."

"Hit hain't what looks like, hit's what's best fer him," said Hoke, sagely. "Whatevah doctah says, we'll do." Then Hoke laughed quietly. "He done tol' Doctor Bartlett 'at he reckoned somebody mus' 'a' took him fer some sorter wild creetur an' shot him by mistake. I guess Frale's safe enough f'om him, if the fool boy only know'd hit."

"Frale, he's plumb crazy, the way he's b'en actin'," said Azalea.

"An' Bishop Towahs he telegrafted 'at he'd send this here doctah, an' he'd come up to-morrer with Miz Towahs to stop ovah with you, so I reckon yer maw wants you down thar, Cass."

Cassandra rose quickly and placed the sleeping child gently in his cradle box. "I'll go," she said. "There's no need for me here now. Hoke—you've been right good—" She stopped abruptly and turned to his wife. "I must wear your dress off, Azalie, but I'll send it back by Hoke as soon as hit's been washed." She went out the door almost as if she were eager to escape.

"Hain't ye goin' to wait fer yer horse?" said Hoke, laughing. "Set a minute till I fetch him."

"I clean forgot," she said, and when he had left, she turned to her friend. "Azalie—don't say anything to Hoke about me—us. Did Aunt Sally see? You know I didn't know myself until I woke and found myself there. I'd been trying to make him take a little whiskey—and—I must have gone asleep like I was—and he woke up and must 'a' felt like he had to kiss somebody—he was that glad to be alive."

"Nevah you fret, child." Azalea smiled a quiet smile. "I'm not one to talk; anyway, I reckon Doctah Thryng's about right. He sure have been good to me."

The widow sat on her little stoop, waiting and watching, as her daughter rode to the door and wearily alighted.

"Cassandry Merlin! For the Lord's sake! What-all is up now? Hoyle—where is that boy?—Hoyle, come here an' take the horse fer sister. Be ye most dade, honey? I reckon ye be. Ye look like hit."

Cassandra kissed her mother and passed on into the house. "I couldn't send you word last night; anyway, I reckoned you'd rest better if you didn't know, for we-all thought Doctor Thryng was sure killed. Did Hoke tell you this morning?"

"I 'lowed you was stoppin' with Azalie—'at baby was sick or somethin'—when Hoyle went up to the cabin an' said doctah wa'n't there. Frale sure have done for hisself. I reckon you are cl'ar shet o' him now, an' I'm glad ye be, since he done took to the idee o' marryin' with you. What-all have he done the doctah this-a-way fer? The' wa'n't nothin' 'twixt him an' doctah. Pore fool boy he! I'll be glad fer yuer sake, Cass, if he'll quit these here mountains."

"Oh, mother, mother! Don't talk about me, don't think of me! The doctor's nigh about killed—let alone the sin Frale has on him now." Wearied beyond further endurance, she flung herself on her bed and broke into uncontrollable sobbing, while Hoyle stood in the middle of the room and gazed with wide-eyed wonder.

"Be the doctah dade, maw?" he asked, in an awed whisper.

"No, child, no. You fetch a leetle light ud an' chips, an' we'll make her some coffee. Sister's that tired, pore child! Have ye been up all night, Cass?"

She nodded her head and still sobbed on.

"He's gettin' on all right now, be he?"

Again she nodded, but did not take her hands from her face.

"Then you'd ought to be glad. Hit ain't like Frale had of killed him. Farwell, he had many a time sech as that with one an' another, an' he nevah come to no harm f'om hit. I reckon Frale'll be safe. Be ye cryin' fer him, Cass? Pore child! I nevah did think you keered fer Frale that-a-way."

Then Cassandra burst forth with impetuous fire. "Oh, mother, mother! Never say that name to me again. Mother, I saw them! I saw them fighting—and all the time the doctor was bleeding—bleeding and dying, where Frale had shot him. I don't know how long they'd been fighting, but I came there and I saw them. I saw him slip and how Frale crushed him down—down—and his head struck the rock. I saw—and I almost cursed Frale. I hope I didn't—oh, I hope not! But mother, mother! Don't ask me anything more now. Oh, I want to cry! I want to cry and never stop."

While she lay thus weeping, the soft rain that had been threatening all day began pattering down, blessed and soothing, the rain to the earth and the tears to the girl.

In spite of the rain, Thryng was carried home that afternoon according to the physician's orders, and placed in his cabin with Aunt Sally to stand guard over him and provide for his wants. A bed was improvised for her on the floor of the cabin, while David lay in his own bed in his canvas room, bandaged about both body and head, and withal moderately comfortable, sufficiently himself to realize what had occurred, and overjoyed because of the reward his wounds had brought him.

Doctor Bartlett came down to the Fall Place and was given the bed in the loom shed as David had been, and had the pleasure of again seeing Cassandra, who, her tears dried, and her manner composed, looked after his needs as if no storms had ever shaken her soul.