did not finish what she had started to say. Westerfelt looked at her
questioningly and then closed his eyes. She went to the fireplace and
laid a stick of wood across the andirons, and then sat down and hooded
her head with a shawl.

When Westerfelt awoke it was early dawn. The outlines of the room and
the different objects in it were indistinct. At the foot of his bed he
noticed something which resembled a heap of clothing on a chair. He
looked at it steadily, wondering if it could be part of the strange
dreams which had beset him in sleep. As the room gradually became
lighter, he saw that it was a woman. Mrs. Floyd, he thought--but no,
the figure was slighter. It was Harriet. She had taken her mother's
place just before daybreak. Her head hung down, but she was not
asleep. Presently she looked up, and catching his eyes, rose and came
to him.

"How do you feel now?" She touched his forehead with her soft, cool
hand.

"I'm all right; I'll be up to breakfast."

"No, you won't; you must not; it would kill you."

"Pshaw! That pin-scratch?" He playfully struck his breast near the
wound. "He'd have to cut deeper and rip wider to do me up."

She stifled a cry and caught his hand.

"You must not be so foolish." She started to turn away, but his
fingers closed over hers.