“Elsie Maclean. Poor, dear creature! How she labors in her breathing. Suppose I lift her head?”
“No; let her rest quietly, just as she is, and I trust all will be well. Come to the table, and allow me to put some plaster over that cut which bleeds so freely. Trust me, Maclean, and do not look so woe-begone. I am not deceiving you. There may be serious internal injuries that I have not discovered, but this stupor is not alarming. I can find no fractured bones, and hope the blow on the head is the most troublesome thing we shall have to contend with.”
Dr. Grey proceeded to sponge the bruised and stained face and, hoping to divert the man’s anxious thoughts, said, nonchalantly,—
“I believe you are in Mrs. Gerome’s employment?”
“Yes, sir.”
“How long have you been at ‘Solitude’?”
“I came here, sir, and bought the place, while she was in Europe. Ah, doctor, if my mother should die, I believe it would kill my mistress.”
“You are old family servants?”
“My mother took her when she was twelve hours old, and has never left her since. She loves Mrs. Gerome even better than she loves me—her own flesh and blood. I can’t go home and tell my mistress I have nearly killed my mother. She would never endure the sight of me again. Her own mother died the day after she was born, and she has always looked on that poor dear soul yonder as her foster-mother.”