“Mrs. Varney,” returned the girl, strangely quiet, “there’s a heap of soldiers upstairs, looking in all the rooms. I reckon you’d better go and attend to them. They will be in Edith’s room, or Howard’s, in a minute.”
“Yes, yes,” said Mrs. Varney, “and Howard so ill. I must go for a few minutes, anyway. You know what to do?”
“Oh, yes,” answered the girl confidently.
“Bathe his forehead. He isn’t badly hurt, dear. I won’t be long, and he will soon come to, I am sure,” said Mrs. Varney, hastening away.
Presently Wilfred opened his eyes. He stared about him unmeaningly and uncomprehendingly for the moment.
“Wilfred, dear Wilfred,” began the girl in soft, low, caressing tones, “you are not hurt much, are you? Oh, not much! There, you will feel better in just a moment, dear Wilfred.”
“You are not hurt much, are you?”
“Is there—are you——?” questioned Wilfred, striving to concentrate his mind on the problem of his whereabouts and her presence.
“Oh, Wilfred, don’t you know me?”