Have a drink," he added to Pierre, as he stood his
rifle in a corner and came to the table.
In half an hour Pierre and the girl were on their way, leaving Borotte
quarrelling with the brothers, and all drinking heavily. The two arrived
at Throng's late the next afternoon. There had been a slight thaw during
the day, and the air was almost soft, water dripping from the eaves down
the long icicles.
When Lydia entered, the old man was dozing in his chair. The sound of an
axe out behind the house told where Duc was. The whisky-and-herbs was
beside the sick man's chair, and his feet were wrapped about with
bearskins. The girl made a little gesture of pain, and then stepped
softly over and, kneeling, looked into Throng's face. The lips were
moving.
"Dad," she said, "are you asleep?"
"I be a durn fool, I be," he said in a whisper, and then he began to
cough. She took his' hands. They were cold, and she rubbed them softly.
"I feel so a'mighty holler," he said, gasping, "an' that bread's sour
agin." He shook his head pitifully.
His eyes at last settled on her, and he recognised her. He broke into a
giggling laugh; the surprise was almost too much for his feeble mind and
body. His hands reached and clutched hers. "Liddy! Liddy!" he
whispered, then added peevishly, "the bread's sour, an' the boneset and
camomile's no good.
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