"Why didn't you let him take you down?" says Bill, reproachfully, who is rather struck by the blood. "It would have been better after all."
"Of, course it would," says Mr. Carrington, raising his head for a moment from the contemplation of his surgical task to smile into my eyes. "But some little children are very foolish."
"I was seventeen last May," I answered promptly. It is insufferable to be regarded as a child when one is almost eighteen. There is a touch of asperity in my tone.
"Indeed! So old?" says our friend, still smiling.
"Mr. Carrington," I begin, presently, in a rather whimpering tone, "you won't say anything about this at home—will you? You see, they—they might not like the idea of my climbing, and they would be angry. Of course I know it was very unladylike of me, and indeed"—very earnestly this—"I had no more intention of doing such a thing when I left home than I had of flying. Had I, Billy?"
"You had not," says Billy. "I don't know what put the thought into your head. Why, it is two years since last you climbed a tree."
This is a fearful lie; but the dear boy means well.
"You won't betray me?" I say again to my kind doctor.
"I would endure the tortures of the rack first," returns he, giving his bandage a final touch. "Be assured they shall never hear of it from me. You must not suspect me of being a tale-bearer, Miss Phyllis. Does your arm pain you still? have I made it more comfortable?"
"I hardly feel it at all now," I answer, gratefully. "I don't know what I should have done but for you—first catching me as you did, and then dressing my hurt. But how shall I return you your handkerchief?"