"Where am I?" Reynolds asked. "And how did I get here?"

The woman made no reply, but still smiling with apparent satisfaction,
she turned and left the room. She was back again in a few minutes,
this time carrying in her hand a bowl of steaming broth.

"Eat," she ordered, offering him a spoon. "No talk."

But Reynolds did not take the spoon. He was too famished for that.
Seizing the bowl with hands that trembled from weakness and excitement,
he drained it to the last drop.

"More, more," he cried. "I'm starving."

Again the woman smiled as she took the bowl.

"No more now," she told him. "Sleep."

"But where am I?" Reynolds demanded. "I must know."

"Bimeby. Sleep now," was all the satisfaction he obtained, as the
woman left the room and closed the door.

For several minutes Reynolds lay there uncertain, what to do. But the
bed was comfortable, and he was so tired. It was good to rest, and not
worry about anything. He was in friendly hands, and that was
sufficient for the present.

When he again awoke, he felt much refreshed, and longed to get up. He
attempted to do so, but in an instant the same Indian woman was by his