“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.”

[Illustration:  “WHY AM I LOCKED IN?” GASPED DOROTHY. Dorothy Dale’s Camping Days Page 116]

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!”