“What was that?” she asked.
Allan listened with strained attention, but heard only the dashing of the rain and whistling of the wind.
“It sounded like the trampin’ of men,” she said, after a moment. “Perhaps it wasn’t anything. Yes! There it is ag’in!”
She sprang to the door and threw it open with frenzied haste. Up the path she saw dimly four men advancing, staggering under a burden. Her love told her what the burden was.
“It’s Jack!” she screamed. “It’s Jack! My God! They’ve killed him!” and, forgetting the storm, she sprang down the path toward them.
“Is he dead?” she demanded. “Tell me quick—is he dead?”
It was Jack’s hearty voice that answered her.
“Not by a good deal, Mary! It’ll take more’n a twisted ankle t’ kill Jack Welsh!”
She threw her arms about him, sobbing wildly in her great relief, the men standing by, awkwardly supporting him.
“But there! Here I am keepin’ you out in th’ wet! Bring him in, men,” and she ran on before, radiant with happiness. This misfortune was so much less than she had feared, that it seemed almost not to be a misfortune at all. “It’s only a sprained ankle, Allan,” she cried to the boy, and ran on past him to get a chair ready.