"Well?" she said with low eagerness.
"Go back to him. He wants you," answered the old man. "I've got
something to do for him."
He made no attempt to touch her, his words and voice were brusque, yet
David saw that she responded, softened, showed the ragged wound of her
pain to him as she did to no one else. It was an understanding that
went beneath all externals. Words were unnecessary between them, heart
spoke to heart.
She returned to the tent and sunk on the skin beside her father. He
smiled faintly and stretched a hand for hers, and her fingers slipped
between his, cool and strong against the lifeless dryness of his palm.
She gave back his smile bravely, her eyes steadfast. She had no desire
for tears, no acuteness of sensation. A weight as heavy as the world
lay on her, crushing out struggle and resistance. She knew that he was
dying. When they told her there was no doctor in the camp her
flickering hope had gone out. Now she was prepared to sit by him and
wait with a lethargic patience beyond which was nothing.
He pressed her hand and said: "I've sent Daddy John on a hunt.
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