“I wish I could come now,” said I.
“If you would,” said George, “I’d go with you. But not by myself, to become a fat stupid fool, like my own cattle.”
While he was speaking Gyp burst into a rage of barking. The father got up to see what it was, and George followed. Trip, the great bull-terrier, rushed out of the house shaking the buildings with his roars. We saw the white dog flash down the yard, we heard a rattle from the hen-house ladder, and in a moment a scream from the orchard side.
We rushed forward, and there on the sharp bank-side lay a little figure, face down, and Trip standing over it, looking rather puzzled.
I picked up the child—it was Sam. He struggled as soon as he felt my hands, but I bore him off to the house. He wriggled like a wild hare, and kicked, but at last he was still. I set him on the hearthrug to examine him. He was a quaint little figure, dressed in a man’s trousers that had been botched small for him, and a coat hanging in rags.
“Did he get hold of you?” asked the father. “Where was it he got hold of you?”
But the child stood unanswering, his little pale lips pinched together, his eyes staring out at nothing. Emily went on her knees before him, and put her face close to his, saying, with a voice that made one shrink from its unbridled emotion of caress:
“Did he hurt you, eh?—tell us where he hurt you.” She would have put her arms around him, but he shrank away.
“Look here,” said Lettie, “it’s here—and it’s bleeding. Go and get some water, Emily, and some
