“It is too soon to tell,” the doctor said evasively; “but I’ll say this much, her pulse is better than I expected.  Now, go get some sleep.”

Half an hour later a strange rumbling sound puzzled the nurses in Ward B. It came at regular intervals, rising from a monotonous growl to a staccato, then dying away in a plaintive diminuendo.  It was not until one of the nurses needed clean sheets that the mystery was explained.  On the floor of the linen closet, stretched on his back with his carpet sack under his head and his empty sleeve across his chest, lay Pop!

From that time on the old mountaineer became a daily problem to Ward B. It is true, he agreed in time to go home at night with the orderly; but by six in the morning he was sitting on the hospital steps, impatiently awaiting admission.  The linen closet was still regarded by him as his private apartment, to which he repaired at such times as he could not stay in Sally’s room, and refreshed himself with the luncheon he brought with him each day.

During the first week, when the girl’s life hung in the balance, he was granted privileges which he afterward refused to relinquish.  The hospital confines, after the freedom of the hills, chafed him sorely.  As the days grew warmer he discarded his coat, collar, and at times his shoes.

“I ‘low I’m goin’ to tek Sal home next week!” became his daily threat.

But the days and weeks slipped by, and still the girl lay with a low, consuming fever, and still Pop watched by her side, showing her no affection by word or gesture but serving her and anticipating her every want with a thoroughness that left little for the nurses to do.

In some way Miss Fletcher had gained his confidence.  To her he intrusted the bills which he ripped from his coat at the end of each week with the instruction that she “pay off them boys down in the office fa’r an’ squar’, but not to ’low ’em to cheat her.”  It may have been her growing interest in the invalid that won his favor, for she came in often to chat awhile with Sally and sometimes brought up a handful of flowers to brighten the sick room.

“She’s getting better,” she said one morning as she held the girl’s big bony hand and looked down at the thin bright face in its frame of shining hair.  “We’ll have her sitting up now before long.”

Pop’s whole aspect brightened.

“Ef Sal onct begins to git well, can’t none of ’em beat her,” he said proudly.

“Have you any other children?” Miss Fletcher asked.

“Lord, yes,” said Pop, “heaps of ’em.  Thar’s Ted an’ Larkin, an’ Gus,—­they wuz all kilt in feud fights.  An’ Burt an’ Jim,—­they’re in jail in Jackson fer moonshinin’.  Four more died when they wuz babies.  An’ they ain’t nary a one at home now but jes’ Sal.”

“How old is she?”

“Seventeen or eighteen, mebbe.”

“And she tells me she has never been to school.”

“Thar warn’t no needcessity,” said Pop complacently, taking a long twist of tobacco from his pocket.  “Sal don’t need no larnin’.  She’s pearter then most gals thet’s got book sense.  You show me ary one of these gals round here thet kin spin an’ weave the cloth to mek ther own dresses, thet kin mold candles, an’ mek soap, an’ hoe terbaccy, an’ handle a rifle good ez a man.”