The door was opened, and the boys stood anxiously aside, watching the faint, gasping breath, until at last Tiny was able to swallow a little of the water; and then they would have closed round her again, but their mother kept them off.
"Would a drop o' milk do her good?" whispered Coomber after a time; but she was sensible enough to recognise his voice, and shuddered visibly. He groaned as he saw it; but drew further back, so that she should not see him when she opened her eyes.
"Give me the sticking-plaster, Dick," said his mother, when Tiny had somewhat revived. Mrs. Coomber was used to cuts and wounds, and could strap them up as cleverly as a surgeon. It was not the sight of the ugly cut that had frightened her, but the death-like swoon, which she did not understand.
"How about the milk, mother?" Coomber ventured to ask, after Tiny's forehead was strapped up and bandaged.
Again came that shudder of fear, and the little girl crept closer to the sheltering arms. "Don't be frightened, deary; daddy won't hurt you now."
"Don't let him come," whispered Tiny; but Coomber heard the whisper, and it cut him to the heart, although he kept carefully in the background as he repeated his question.
"Would yer like a little milk, deary?" asked Mrs. Coomber.
"There ain't no money to buy milk," said Tiny, in a feeble, weary tone.
But Coomber crept round the back of the kitchen, so as to keep out of sight, took up the bottle of whisky he had brought home, and went out. He brought a jug of milk when he came back. "You can send for some more to-morrow, and as long as she wants it," he said, as he stood the jug on the table.
