"If you are her brother then you are Philemon Henry's son, and he was a man of peace. I have had a great desire to see you, since your father was a good friend of mine. I heard you had come over, I must say on bad business. Here, this turn cuts off some distance, though we have been squared according to plummet and line; and then down here. Let me take the child. Is there no sign of returning animation?"
They reached the Wetherill house, and its mistress caught sight of them from the window.
"Oh, Dr. Shippen!" she cried in alarm.
"The child has had a fall. Take off her hat and coat. Now let me see!"
He laid her on the settle in the hall and began chafing her hands, and ordering some restoratives.
"Are you sure there are no bones broken?"
"Not quite. It really was not that kind of a fall. There, she is coming around. Now, Madam Wetherill, here is a pepper-pot of a young soldier that you must cool down with some soothing potions, and I will find the other firebrand. We won't have them shooting each other unless in up and down warfare."
"I think you will bear witness that I was insulted," declared Nevitt.
"And gave an insult. It is about even. No fighting, therefore. Dueling for trifles is cold-blooded murder. I ask it for your father's sake. My little dear, wake up from your nap."
"What is it?" Primrose said in a faint voice. "I feel queer." Then she lapsed into insensibility again.