Very gently, the Vicar bathed Salome's white face until her eyelids flickered and a faint colour stole to her lips. Josiah, sobered by fright, explained what had happened, not sparing himself, but declaring he would not have injured a hair of his daughter's head, if he could have helped it, for Mr. Amyatt must know how much he loved her.
"Tush, Petherick!" the Vicar responded impatiently, mingled pity and disgust in his tone. "Don't talk to me of your love for Salome. A nice way you have of showing it. Last night, you turned her out of doors in torrents of rain—"
"I was drunk," Josiah interposed hastily. "She riled me, she did, with her tears, and—"
"Having been drunk is no excuse," Mr. Amyatt interrupted in his turn. "Not content with your scandalous conduct last night, you must continue your unmanly behaviour to-day and knock Salome down, and—"
"No, no," said a weak voice at this point. It was Salome who spoke. She had regained consciousness, and was sufficiently herself to understand what was going on. "No, no," she repeated, "it was an accident. He did not mean to hurt me."
"I shook her, and—and pushed her," Josiah admitted, looking thoroughly ashamed of himself. "I meant her no harm, sir, but I was rough, and—oh, Salome, can you ever forgive me?" And the wretched man turned appealingly to the little figure in the easy-chair.
"Yes," was the faint response. "I—I don't think I'm much hurt."
"Are you in pain?" Mr. Amyatt asked gently.
"No, sir; but my forehead is very sore. I must have knocked it in falling."
"Yes, poor child, I see you did; there is a big bruise coming."