few drops of morphia, just enough to make you feel sleepy and stupid,
and make the time pass a bit quicker."

For a long while he writhed and cried, telling her that it took all the
wits that he had to keep awake enough to keep the devils off him without
taking stuff to make him sleep, and that he was sure she'd never come
back, and that he would very likely be left on the tree to rot or to
fall into the water.

All that he said came so near to being true that it caused her the
utmost pain to hear it. He was clever enough by instinct, not by
thought, to know that mere idle cries could not torture her as did the
true picture of the fears and dangers that encompassed him in his wild
hiding-place. The endurance of this torture exhausted her as nothing had
ever exhausted her before; yet all the time she never doubted but that
the pain was his, and that she was merely a spectator.

She soothed him at last, not by gentleness and caresses--no such
communication ever passed between them--but by plain, practical, hopeful
suggestions spoken out clearly in the intervals of his whining. At
length she esteemed it time to use the spur instead of stroking him any
longer. "Get up on the tree, father, and I will give you the rest of the
things when you are fixed on the branch. If Toyner's stirring again
before I get home, he'll find means to keep me from coming to-morrow
night. Climb up now. I'll give you the things. There--there isn't enough
of the morphia drops to get you to sleep, only to make you feel easy;
and here's the strips of blanket I've sewed together to tie yourself on
with. It's nice and soft--climb up now and fix yourself. It's Toyner
that will catch me, and you too, if I don't get back. Look at the
moon--near the middle of the sky."