"Oh, I can't!" The words came in a faint, frightened gasp. "Mother sent me to ask you—have you got something for a—a cut? Joe—that is, he was cutting up a chicken, and the knife slipped—" She stopped abruptly.
"That's bad; but we've got something for it. Come in and rest a minute while I get the things, and I'll go back with you," Rob began; but the girl raised her hands entreatingly.
"Please don't!" she besought. "That is, I mean, thank you; but you couldn't do nothing. It ain't so dangerous. All we need is something to put on it."
Rob went across the room to where Harry was busily putting together lint, disinfectant and sticking plaster.
"I think I ought to go over, don't you?" he said. "He may have cut an artery."
"No, no!" Isita's voice called out desperately. "It ain't so bad. Ma said for you not to come. It—it would make dad so mad. He'd 'a' killed me if he'd knowed I was coming over here. Never mind, Miss Holliday. I reckon I'd better be getting back."
"Wait! Here's your bandaging!" Harry called cheerily, coming out at the same moment with the package and with her sweater on. "I'm only going to the gate with you," she said soothingly, and, slipping her arm through Isita's, led her down the steps.
Harry was back in ten minutes. "I thought I might calm her," she explained to Rob. "The poor child was either scared to death at sight of a bad cut, or else frightened by that brute of a father. What a shame she has to live with such a family."
"I wonder how Joe did cut his hand," Rob said thoughtfully. "I shouldn't wonder if there had been a family scrap and the old man gave him one."