CHAPTER XII.
A chill, gray, somber dawn was breaking when Ellen dragged herself into the cabin and crept under her blankets, there to sleep the sleep of exhaustion.
When she awoke the hour appeared to be late afternoon.

Sun and sky shone through the sunken and decayed roof of the old cabin.

Her uncle, Tad Jorth, lay upon a blanket bed upheld by a crude couch of boughs.
The light fell upon his face, pale, lined, cast in a still mold of suffering.

He was not dead, for she heard his respiration.
The floor underneath Ellen's blankets was bare clay.

She and Jorth were alone in this cabin.