The sick man had been carried out of doors by Mr. Thompson and Keefe, and placed where he could watch the preparations that were being made for his journey. And while he looked, not more than half-understanding, his great wild eyes rolling in their sockets, his wife mixed hoe-cake, using the last meal she possessed, and cooked it on the coals. Chickens had been prepared with dispatch, and were boiling in the pot, and Aunt Zillah, having given all necessary attention to affairs within the house, was now gathering dewberries and getting a fine bowl of them. Presently the hammock was completed and supper was served. Miss Zillah had persuaded Mrs. Panther to let them eat it in the open, and they sat together, that strangely mingled company, in the clear light of the long-lingering day, enjoying their homely repast. The lovely evening, the wild spot, her friends—so various, but so dear—the awakening light in Paralee’s eyes, the sense of being, somehow, on the right road of the world, brought to Azalea’s heart a sense of dancing delight. She insisted on serving the chicken, the hoecake and the hot decoction which Mrs. Panther was pleased to call tea, making the others sit still while she waited on them. She could only be contented when she was doing something, it seemed. It was well on into the evening before the company was ready for rest; for the last preparations for moving had to be made that night if the company was to have an early morning start. The horses had to be cared for, Mr. Panther made as fit for civilization as possible, some sort of garments contrived for Mrs. Panther, and the house and yard “put straight.” Everyone, save, of course, the helpless, silent man upon his couch, turned in to help, Carin with the rest. Once Azalea whispered to her friend: “Did you hear that noise? It’s Paralee laughing!” “Do you think so?” asked Carin skeptically. “It sounded to me rather like a frog.” “It was Paralee,” declared Azalea seriously. “It did sound a little like a frog, didn’t it, but just you wait a month or two, Carin Carson, and then hear how it sounds!” Carin gave a tired little laugh. “I can’t take another step, Zalie,” she declared. “No matter what the rest of you do, I’ve got to go to bed.” Going to bed on this night meant rolling one’s self in a raincoat, covering one’s self with some coarse handmade sheeting, and lying straight upon a bed of pine needles with one’s face to the stars.