"Small wonder!" exclaimed Polly Ann. "To think what ye've been
through--yere husband near to dyin' afore yere eyes, and ye a-reskin'
yere own life to save him--so Tom tells me. When Tom goes out
a-fightin' red-skins I'm that fidgety I can't set still. I wouldn't let
him know what I feel fer the world. But well ye know the pain of it, who
love yere husband like that."

The lady would have smiled bravely, had the strength been given her. She
tried. And then, with a shudder, she hid her face in her hands.

"Oh, don't!" she exclaimed, "don't!"

Mr. Riddle went out.

"There, there, ma'am," she said, "I hedn't no right ter speak, and ye
fair worn out." She drew her gently into a chair. "Set down, ma'am, and
don't ye stir tell supper's ready." She brushed her eyes with her
sleeve, and, stepping briskly to my bed, bent over me. "Davy," she said,
"Davy, how be ye?"

"Davy!"

It was the lady's voice. She stood facing us, and never while I live
shall I forget that which I saw in her eyes. Some resemblance it bore to
the look of the hunted deer, but in the animal it is dumb, appealing.
Understanding made the look of the woman terrible to behold,--
understanding, ay, and courage. For she did not lack this last
quality. Polly Ann gave back in a kind of dismay, and I shivered.

"Yes," I answered, "I am David Ritchie."