“Wait!” he said. “Get a bed ready first! Get hot blankets and brandy! She’s chilled to the bone. Make up the fire, Milly! You, Dolly, light a fire upstairs! Elsie, get the warming-pan! Lucy and Nell, go and draw some water!”
He issued his orders with a parade-like brevity that took instantaneous effect. The crowd melted magically. And still Frances clung to that solid supporting arm as if she could never bear to let go.
Suddenly, it seemed to her that she was alone with him. He bent over her and spoke.
“Tell me! What has frightened you so on the moor?”
His look compelled an answer. Even against her will she would have made it, but a violent shivering fit took her and speech became impossible. He grasped an arm of the old settle on which she lay and dragged it nearer to the fire.
“Don’t be afraid!” he said. “You’re safe enough here. Ruth!”
He raised his voice slightly. The child came and stood beside him—a small child, beautifully made, her sweet face upturned like the face of a flower that seeks the sun. Her eyes were always closed, sealed buds that no sun would ever open.
The man did not look at her. He was closely watching Frances.
“Why did you go to the Stones to-night?” he said.
“I had a dream,” said the child.