Christa can get the chart he made from him by to-morrow night--I know she can.

I'll try to be here earlier than I was to-night.

And I brought you strips of stuff, father, so that you could tie yourself on to the tree and have a sort of a sleep; and I brought a few drops of morphia, just enough to make you feel sleepy and stupid, and make the time pass a bit quicker." For a long while he writhed and cried, telling her that it took all the wits that he had to keep awake enough to keep the devils off him without taking stuff to make him sleep, and that he was sure she'd never come back, and that he would very likely be left on the tree to rot or to fall into the water.
All that he said came so near to being true that it caused her the utmost pain to hear it.

He was clever enough by instinct, not by thought, to know that mere idle cries could not torture her as did the true picture of the fears and dangers that encompassed him in his wild hiding-place.

The endurance of this torture exhausted her as nothing had ever exhausted her before; yet all the time she never doubted but that the pain was his, and that she was merely a spectator.
She soothed him at last, not by gentleness and caresses--no such communication ever passed between them--but by plain, practical, hopeful suggestions spoken out clearly in the intervals of his whining.