“Are you hurt?” he asked, bending his head so near her face that his short wet beard brushed her cheek.
“No,” she said, wresting herself from him; “I thank you—but you have hurt yourself.”
“You are mistaken,” he said abruptly. “Take my arm, please.”
He did not wait for her yea or nay; but drawing her arm through his, he strode on in silence, holding it closely pinioned against his heart. When they reached the house, they were both white and breathless. Nora opened the door for them.
“Oh, Miss Ruth, do hurry up!” she cried, wringing her hands as the doctor threw off his coat and hat; “all she does now is to stare at us with her teeth all chattering.”
The doctor sprang up three steps at a time, Ruth quickly following.
The room was in a blaze of light; Mrs. Levice sat up in bed, her large dark eyes staring into vacancy, her face as white as the snowy counterpane.
Kemp looked like a pillar of strength as he came up to the bedside.
“Well?” he said, holding out his hand and smiling at her.
As he took her hand in his, she strove to speak; but the sobbing result was painful.