Dorothy did not look in the least like death. She was blushing now, because Evesham would think it so strange of her to stay, and yet she could not rise in her wet clothes, which clung to her like the calyx to a bud.
"Let me see that cut, Dorothy, please!"
"Oh, it's nothing. I don't wish thee to look at it!"
"But I will! Do you want to make me your murderer—sitting there in your wet clothes, with a cut on your head?"
He drew away her hand, and the wound, indeed, was no great affair, but he bound it up deftly with strips of his handkerchief. Dorothy's wet curls touched his fingers and clung to them, and her eyelashes drooped lower and lower.
"I think it was very stupid of thee. Didn't thee hear us from the dam? I'm sure we made noise enough."
"Yes, I heard you when it was too late. I heard the sheep before, but how could I imagine that you, Dorothy, and three boys, as big as cockerels, were sheep-washing? It's the most preposterous thing I ever heard of!"
"Well, I can't help being a woman, and the sheep had to be washed. I think there ought to be more men in the world when half of them are preaching and fighting."
"If you'd only let the men who are left help you a little, Dorothy!"
"I don't want any help. I only don't want to be washed into the mill-head."