houghts.

The camp, which they reached just before midnight, made a bright spot in
the darkness of the woods. The fire-light shone through every chink in
its dark logs, making red bars upon the snow.

The sick man was sleeping, and by his side sat the cook, who was acting
as nurse, an old man who had been a sailor and wore gold rings in his
ears. He was sleeping also, and from two bunks on the opposite side of
the camp came the audible evidence that others were in a like condition.

"Oh, he can't be so very bad: he can't be dying," said Drusy, seating
herself on the deacon-seat at the foot of the sick man's bed and peering
anxiously into his pinched and pallid face, which was illuminated by the
rays of the great fire.

"'Pears ter be more comfortable; the fever's kind er left him; but the
doctor says he's goin' fast. Sleeps 'most all the time now, but he's
mostly out of his head yit, pore feller! I hain't seen him ser quiet's
he is now fur days," said the old man drowsily.

Barker, having put up his horse, seated himself beside the cook, who
speedily relapsed into slumber again, his grizzly head drooping upon his
breast. Drusy crept on to the edge of the bunk and softly wiped away the
heavy moisture from the dying man's brow. He tossed uneasily upon his
bed of hemlock boughs, but did not waken: his breathing was a perpetual
moan, his fingers picked restlessly at the bedclothing.

The wind rose and stirred about the camp like the rustle of mysterious
garments, and blew fitfully the varied pipes in the pine boughs. The
great logs on the fire were dropping to scarlet coals, but Barker
hastened to pile on more fuel, though there was still sufficient warmth
from the huge pile. And so the night wore on. Toward morning the sick
man opened his eyes and fixed them steadily upon Drusy's face.

"Do you know me, Seth?" she asked, taking his hand within her own.

"Drusy, I ain't treated you well,--but you'll forgive me?" He spoke
slowly and painfully, making the most of his feeble breath. "It's all
over now, 'n' there's a little property left fur you. Squire Carter,
down home, 'll tell you about it. It's in his hands."

"Oh, Seth," sobbed Drusy, "I have been wrong too. I wasn't half so
patient 'n' forbearing as I ought to have been. I laid up things against
you that I ought to have forgot. Forgive me."

He smiled, holding her hand with a faint pressure, then closed his eyes
wearily and seemed to be sleeping.

Drusy choke