“There’s a good spring of water over yon, if so be you’re wanting water; and this here bench is a good one to rest on before going on down the mountain.” By “bench” he meant, of course, the level bit of land on the mountain side. Jim knew that his father was simply quivering inside, just as he was himself, to know what those people were doing and what they were carrying in their wagons. The man looked at pa and nodded. “We’re about tuckered out,” he admitted. “Come far?” asked pa. It hurt his pride to ask the question, but he had to do it. The man looked at pa impatiently. “Why, we’re always on the road,” he said. “We’ve got a show here.” A show! Jim felt something running up his spine—something that felt as cold and swift as a lizard. It was really a thrill of excitement, but Jim was afraid it was some sort of sickness. He was not used to the feeling. The queer procession came to a stop in the McBirney clearing. There were three covered wagons, six thin horses, five men, two women, a boy and a girl. All were walking. The man to whom pa had spoken was pale, fat and tired looking, and while pa was looking him over in his quiet way the man took off his hat and wiped the moisture from his head. “We’re out of luck,” he said. “There’s a dying woman in that last wagon—the smartest performer of the bunch. Sing or dance or anything. That’s her girl there.” He pointed to a slender girl of about Jim’s own age, who stood staring off into the valley, though Jim, who had seen that same sort of a look in his mother’s face, knew she wasn’t really seeing it. She wasn’t seeing anything, he decided. “Sho!” murmured Pa McBirney. “Dying? Are you sure?” The man thwacked a huge horsefly on his horse’s flank. “Sure,” said he. One of the women asked pa if they might cook their breakfast in the open “rock” fireplace that stood there in the yard. “Yes, ma’am,” said pa quickly. And then he called: “Here, ma, these folks want to cook their breakfast here a-way. And they say there’s a mighty sick woman in that tent-wagon yon.” Mary McBirney, whose shyness had kept her sitting as still as if she were under some spell, got up at once when she heard this, and came forward. She nodded to the men and women without really looking at them, because that was her way with strangers. “Where’s the sick woman, please?” she asked in her soft voice. The girl who had stood looking at the valley turned at this. “I’ll show you, please ma’am,” she said, and her voice sounded so tired that it made a lump come in Jim’s throat. Mary McBirney reached down and took the girl’s thin brown hand in her own, and the two went on to the wagon, the others watching them. They saw her lean forward and look in the wagon, and then draw back with a startled face. “Why, it’s over!” she called. “Pa! Pa! The poor soul’s gone!” At that the other women ran toward her.