The thought brings me to my feet.
I had been sitting on the trunk of a fallen tree. Far in front stretches
the dark valley of the Hedgeman River. Confused noises come from rear
and left. The vedettes will be withdrawn at once, no doubt, for the
march begins. Where is my father? Where he is there should I be also.
Suddenly light comes; I know that the letter was signed Jones Berwick,
Sr. From what place was it written? I do not know. But I know that my
father is the man in the tent where the Doctor attends me sick.