shuddered violently, and seemed to feel a horror of herself.
“No—no,” she said, looking at herself, with blood all on her skirt, where she had knelt on the wound which I had given the dog, and pressed the broken rib into the chest. There was a trickle of blood on her arm.
“Did he bite you?” I asked, anxious.
“No—oh, no—I just peeped in, and he jumped. But he had no strength, and I hit him back with my stone, and I lost my balance, and fell on him.”
“Let me wash your arm.”
“Oh!” she exclaimed, “isn’t it horrible! Oh, I think it is so awful.”
“What?” said I, busy bathing her arm in the cold water of the brook.
“This— this whole brutal affair.”
“It ought to be cauterised,” said I, looking at a score on her arm from the dog’s tooth.
“That scratch—that’s nothing! Can you get that off my skirt—I feel hateful to myself.”
I washed her skirt with my handkerchief as well as I could, saying:
“Let me just sear it for you; we can go to the Kennels. Do—you ought—I don’t feel safe otherwise.”
“Really,” she said, glancing up at me, a smile coming into her fine dark eyes.
“Ha, ha!” she laughed. “You look so serious.”
I took her arm, and drew her away. She linked her arm in mine, and leaned on me.