"Are you better now?" asked Fanny, in a quavering voice.
No answer; no sign of recognition; but a faint pink colour returned to her lips, although the rest of her face was ashen pale.
Mrs. Thornton came hurriedly in, with the nearest surgeon she could find.
"How is she? Are you better, my dear?" as Margaret opened her filmy eyes, and gazed dreamily at her. "Here is Mr. Lowe come to see you."
Mrs. Thornton spoke loudly and distinctly, as to a deaf person. Margaret tried to rise, and drew her ruffled, luxuriant hair instinctly over the cut.
"I am better now," said she, in a very low, faint voice. "I was a little sick."
She let him take her hand and feel her pulse. The bright colour came for a moment into her face, when he asked to examine the wound in her forehead; and she glanced up at Jane, as if shrinking from her inspection more than from the doctor's.
"It is not much, I think. I am better now. must go home."
"Not until I have applied some strips of plaster, and you have rested a little."
She sat down hastily, without another word, and allowed it to be bound up.
"Now, if you please," said she, "I must go. Mamma will not see it, I think. It is under the hair, is it not?"
"Quite; no one could tell."
"But you must not go," said Mrs. Thornton, impatiently. "You are not fit to go."
"I must," said Margaret, decidedly. "Think of
