After his sleep on Hanging Rock, David, allured by the sunset, remained long in his doorway idly smoking his pipe, and ruminating, until a normal and delightful hunger sent him striding down the winding path toward the blazing hearth where he had found such kindly welcome the evening before. There, seated tilted back against the chimney side, he found a huge youth, innocent of face and gentle of mien, who rose as he entered and offered him his chair, and smiled and tossed back a falling lock from his forehead as he gave him greeting.
"This hyar is Doctah Thryng, Frale, who done me up this-a-way. He 'lows he's goin' to git me well so's I can walk again. How air you, suh? You certainly do look a heap better'n when you come las' evenin'."
"So I am, indeed. And you?" David's voice rang out gladly. He went to the bed and bent above the old woman, looking her over carefully. "Are you comfortable? Do the weights hurt you?" he asked.
"I cyan't say as they air right comfortable, but ef they'll help me to git 'round agin, I reckon I can bar hit."
Early that morning, with but the simplest means, David had arranged bandages and weights of wood to hold her in position.
She was so slight he hoped the broken hip might right itself