"If you plunge in that way," admonished Henrietta, running lightly beside Mabel, "you'll scare him to death. Do stop long enough to wash your face—he'll think you're a murderous young squaw coming with another dose of Dave's medicine."
Five minutes later, when Mabel, very red and very shining from a hasty application of laundry soap and cold water, looked in at the tent door, a pair of big, bright blue eyes smiled at her from the low, balsam bed.
"Hello!" said the boy, "are you the kid they call Mabel? They tell me you picked me up on the beach, along with some driftwood, when I was drowned."
"Yes," admitted Mabel, bashfully. "And I guess you were drowned, too—almost. I'm glad you've come to, at last. When are you going to get up?"
"I tried to just now, but my head's made of lead—it won't come up."
"I guess your neck's weak—Bettie's was. What's your name?"
The laughter and the light suddenly faded from the boy's eyes.
"I don't know," said the boy, blankly. "I—it's queer, isn't it? That lady with the broth asked me once before, I think——"
"I asked you yesterday," corroborated Mrs. Crane. "But don't worry, my dear. You've been very ill and your mind is as weak as your body, no doubt. They'll both be stronger in a few days. All you need to remember is that we are your friends."
"And your real name doesn't matter, anyway," added Mabel, noting the troubled expression that still clouded the boy's countenance. "I'm going to call you Billy Blue-eyes—I used to know a goat——"