“Papa, I am not hurt,” said a girlish voice; “am I with papa?”
“You are with a friend, and your father is close at hand.”
“Tell him I am not hurt, except just in my shoulder. Oh, my shoulder! They trod just here.”
“Dislocation, perhaps!” muttered the Doctor: “let us hope there is no worse injury done. Lucy, lend a hand one instant.”
And I assisted while he made some arrangement of drapery and position for the ease of his suffering burden. She suppressed a moan, and lay in his arms quietly and patiently.
“She is very light,” said Graham, “like a child!” and he asked in my ear, “Is she a child, Lucy? Did you notice her age?”
“I am not a child—I am a person of seventeen,” responded the patient, demurely and with dignity. Then, directly after: “Tell papa to come; I get anxious.”
The carriage drove up; her father relieved Graham; but in the exchange from one bearer to another she was hurt, and moaned again.
“My darling!” said the father, tenderly; then turning to Graham, “You said, sir, you are a medical man?”
“I am: Dr. Bretton, of La Terrasse.”