This was different. She did not draw away
from him now. She did not seem to see or hear him. Her glance lit
unknowing on his face, her hand lay in his, passive as a thing of
stone. Sometimes he thought she did not know who he was.
"Can't we do anything to cheer her or take her mind off it?" he said to
Daddy John behind the wagon.
The old man gave him a glance of tolerant scorn.
"You can't take a person's mind off the only thing that's in it. She's
got nothing inside her but worry. She's filled up with it, level to
the top. You might as well try and stop a pail from overflowing that's
too full of water."
They fared on for two interminable, broiling days. The pace was of the
slowest, for a jolt or wrench of the wagon might cause another
hemorrhage. With a cautious observance of stones and chuck holes they
crawled down the road that edged the river. The sun was blinding,
beating on the canvas hood till the girl's face was beaded with sweat,
and the sick man's blankets were hot against the intenser heat of his
body. Outside the world held its breath spellbound in a white dazzle.
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