“Rosaleen!” she cried. “Oh!... Rosaleen!”
To see neat, fair Rosaleen like this, white as a ghost, with her hair half down, her dress spattered with blood!...
“What is it? What is it?” she cried.
“Hush!” whispered Rosaleen, shaking her arm. “Keep quiet! You’ve got to help me!”
Miss Waters followed her into the back room, but she couldn’t suppress another scream. For there on one of the cots lay the enormous bulk of a man, with his eyes closed and his hair dank and wet across his brow.
“What shall I do with him?” whispered Rosaleen.
“Who is he?” Miss Waters asked.
“Why, Lawrence Iverson, of course!”
“What’s the matter with him, Rosaleen?” Miss Waters cried. “Is he—drunk?”