“I—I beg your pardon!” he said. “I must have come an awful cropper; I—I feel as if I couldn’t move!” and he made another effort.
“Oh, no, no,” said Doris anxiously; “do not try—yet. Oh, I am afraid you are very much hurt! Let me——” she wiped his forehead again. “If there were only some one else to help,” she exclaimed in a piteous voice.
“Don’t—don’t—please don’t you trouble about it,” he said, pleadingly. “I shall be all right directly. It’s ridiculous—” he added faintly, but endeavoring to laugh again. “I feel as if I’d got rusty hinges at the back of my neck.”
His eyes closed for a moment, for, notwithstanding the laugh and his would-be light tone, he was in considerable pain; then he opened them again and let them rest upon her face.
“You’re awfully good to me!” he said, slowly. “I feel ashamed—” he stopped, and a deep blush rose through the tan of his face, for he had suddenly realized that his head was in her lap, a fact of which Doris was perfectly unconscious. “Awfully good!” he repeated.
“Oh, don’t talk!” she said, earnestly. “You—you are not able! Oh! if there was something I could do! Water! I will get you some to drink,” and she put his head gently from her and rose.
He smothered a sigh.
“There’s—there’s a flask in my saddle-pocket, if I could only get at it,” he said.
“I’ll get it,” she said, swiftly.
“No, no,” he said, quickly. “The—the horse, I mean might—”