I
am obliged for your assistance, but I need not keep you."
The men withdrew, and when a rattle of wheels rose from the prairie,
Maud Barrington waylaid her uncle in the hall. Her fingers were
trembling, and, though her voice was steady, the man glanced at her
curiously as she asked, "How is he?"
"One can scarcely form an opinion yet," he said slowly. "He is
burned here and there, and his head is badly cut, but it is the
concussion that troubles me. A frantic horse kicks tolerably hard
you know, but I shall be able to tell you more when the doctor comes
to-morrow. In the meanwhile you had better rest, though you could
look in and see if your aunt wants anything in an hour or two."
Maud Barrington passed an hour in horrible impatience, and then stole
quietly into the sick-room. The windows were open wide, and the
shaded lamp burned unsteadily as the cool night breeze flowed in.
Its dim light just touched the man who lay motionless with a bandage
round his head, and the drawn pallor of his face once more sent a
shiver through the girl. Then Miss Barrington rose and lifted a
warning hand.
"Quite unconscious still," she said softly. "I fancy he was knocked
down by one of the horses and trampled on, but your uncle has hopes
of him. He has evidently led a healthy life."
The girl was a little less serene than usual then, and drew back into
the shadow.
"Yes," she said. "We did not think so once."
Miss Barrington smiled curiously.
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