"I don't want any help" I say, with determination. "But for my dress I could manage—-"
"Better let me assist you," says Mr. Carrington, making a step forward. In another moment he will have gained the other side, and then all will be indeed lost.
"No, no!" I cry, desperately; "I won't be helped. Stay where you are."
"Very good," returns he, and, immediately presenting his back to me, makes a kind pretense of studying the landscape.
Now, although this is exactly the thing of all others I most wish him to do, still the voluntary doing of it on his part induces me to believe my situation a degree more indecent than before. I feel I shall presently be dissolved in tears. I tug madly at my unfortunate dress without making the faintest impression upon it. Oh, why is it that my cotton—that up to this has been so prone to reduce itself to rags—to-day should prove so tough? My despair forces from me a heavy sigh.
"Not down yet?" says Mr. Carrington, turning to me once more. "You will never manage it by yourself. Be sensible, and let me put you on your feet."
"No," I answer, in an agony; "it must give way soon. I shall do it, if—if—you will only turn your back to me again." It is death to my pride to have to make this request. I nerve myself to try one more heroic effort. The branch I am clinging to gives way with a crash. "Oh!" I shriek frantically, and in another moment fall headlong into Mr. Carrington's outstretched arms.
"Are you hurt?" he asks, gazing at me with anxious eyes, and still retaining his hold of me.
"Yes, I am," I answered, tearfully. "Look at my arm." I pull up my sleeve cautiously and disclose an arm that looks indeed wonderfully white next the blood that trickles slowly from it.
"Oh, horrible!" says our rich neighbor, with real and intense concern, and, taking out his handkerchief, proceeds to bind up my wound with the extremest tenderness.