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Dorothy Dale's Camping Days

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<hr /> <h2>CHAPTER XIIIToC</h2> <h3>THE SAD AWAKENING</h3> Such a long, lovely sleep, on that fluffy feather bed! Everything so sweet, so wholesome, even in her half-conscious state Dorothy knew that things about her were right—that they were "homey." Then the smooth-roughness of that woman's hands, the life of them seemed to cry out comfort, while the harsh flesh told another story. Twice Dorothy had opened her eyes over a pan of chicken broth. She had to take it, and she was glad of it. Then, outside in the hall room, that was really nothing more nor less than a landing for the unrailed stairs, she thought she could hear the old-fashioned voice of a very old-fashioned man—he wanted to fetch her something, and he didn't seem to care just what. "Couldn't I git her a hunk of thet sausage that we brung home?" he begged. "You loon," was his answer. "Are you set on murder? Do you want to kill her outright?" This repressed his enthusiasm. "Never do I," he declared, "spite of the reward, Samanthy. Don't she look like what our little 'un ought to look like if—she grew to look?" "You loon! How could you tell what she ought to have looked like when her own mother never saw her try? Oh, Josiah," and the lines of hardship melted into possibilities, "wouldn't it have been lovely—if she did—live—to look!" "'Tweren't your fault—nor mine, Samanthy. He knows, and mebby thet's why He sent this 'un. Ain't she purty? And I don't care a durn about the sanitarition folks. Of course—if we've found her—and they want her——" It was a strange sight. Those two wrinkled old faces peering into the blossom that lay on that feather bed! "Josiah Hobbs! You are an old loon! I can't see how you kin make out that this is heaven-sent," and she brushed a fly from the white forehead. "Oh—yes—you—kin, Samanthy. Else why did you shoo thet fly?" "Shet up! Do you want to rouse her?" and she went over, and pulled down the green curtain with the pink rose border. "Are you sartin thet—she's the one?" "Didn't I say I seen her? Are there so many cornsilk heads around here? Now, the question is——" "Jest what I was a-thinkin': The question is——" "We kin lock this room—and put the bars ag'in the shutters. But I don't want to scare her." "It's the best, though. We hev got to make it s'cure. I don't 'magine she'll care fer awhile, any way. And then we kin tote her back to the sanitation." "Well, we'll see. Now, you sneak off and I'll tuck her in. Poor lamb! To think that she's looney!" "Ain't it a shame! If our'n was alive we wouldn't care if she could think or not—we would think fer her—wouldn't we, Samanthy?" "Mebby," she answered, giving the quilt a smoothing. "But there's no tellin'. She might have run off——" The remainder of the soliloquy was lost in the red and white quilt. There Dorothy slept. The tin dipper of fresh water was on the wooden chair at her side. The green curtain was drawn down to the very sill of the window. The door was shut—and it was hooked on the outside. How long she slept she could not by any means know, but certainly the sun had sailed around to the window, that wore no curtain, and through which the glint of a fading day cut in like a faithful friend to poor Dorothy Dale. She groped her way over to the door. It was bolted, and the windows were securely fastened. The awful truth forced itself into her fagged brain. She was a prisoner! Why? What had she done? Wasn't that woman kind? And did not the man go to the spring for water? She heard him say so, and he was a feeble old man. Why was she locked—barred in that smothering attic room? She picked up a heavy block that lay near, and with it rapped vigorously on the bare floor. A shuffling of feet on the stairs told that she had been heard, and presently the not unkindly face of Samanthy Hobbs made its way into the room. "Why am I locked in?" gasped Dorothy. "Why do you not let me go back to my friends?" "Hush there, now, dearie," and she smoothed the hand that lay idly on the red and white quilt, as Dorothy stood beside the bed. "You'll be all right. Don't you go and get bothered. We've sent fer the doctor, and when he comes, he'll fetch you right home to your maw. But you have got to keep quiet, or else the fever will set in, and then there's no tellin'. I told Josiah that we would do fer you like as if you was our'n, but you must not talk, dearie. You must be mournful still." <div class="fig"> style="width: 55%;"> <ANTIMG border="0" src="images/dorothy4.jpg" alt=""WHY AM I LOCKED IN?" GASPED DOROTHY." /> "WHY AM I LOCKED IN?" GASPED DOROTHY. Dorothy Dale's Camping Days                                   Page 116 </div> Dorothy looked keenly into the face that leaned over her. What did it mean? Whom did they take her to be? "Do you know who I am?" she ventured. "Why of course we do, lovey. But don't you bother to talk. The doctor will be here in the morning, and he'll take you back to your maw." "I have no mother," sighed Dorothy. "I am a stranger around here, and I hope you will not keep me from my friends. They are probably looking for me now." "Course they be. But now a little chicken soup? No? Then a sip of tea. It's revivin'. Josiah! Josiah! Come with that milk! How long does it take to milk a brindle cow?" The fresh milk was brought, and crowded upon the already well-filled wooden chair. "Thank you very much," murmured Dorothy, "but I cannot eat or drink. I must go to my friends!" In spite of her will the tears came. At the sight of them the woman shuffled off. Evidently tears were too much for Samanthy Hobbs. "I'll leave you a candle—no, I guess I had better jest raise the lattice, and if you wants anything I'll hear you if you knocks. Don't you worry, dearie. Samanthy Hobbs ain't no—well, she ain't, that's all!" Then Dorothy was alone—all alone in the stuffy room. Could she escape; get out of a window—anything to be in the free open air, and to run—run back to dear old camp? She tried every crack, every window, the old door, even the hole that opened out on the slant roof. Barred! Locked! Everything was locked against her! "Oh, must I die here?" she murmured. Then she fell back on the bed, on the red and white quilt. Sobbing, too weak to cry, too weak to think, but not too weak to know! <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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