"But, my dearest Herminie—"
Without taking any notice of her guest's protest, Herminie stepped to the alcove and drew back the curtains, which her natural delicacy and reserve caused her to keep always closed, and Ernestine saw a little white iron bedstead covered with a pale pink counterpane, and surmounted by a canopy consisting of double draperies of the pretty chintz and fresh white muslin. The alcove, too, was hung with pale pink muslin, and the pillow-slip, dazzling in its whiteness, was edged with lace.
In fact, nothing could be daintier and prettier than this virginal couch, upon which Ernestine, at last yielding to the entreaties of the duchess, laid down to rest awhile.
Drawing the armchair up to the bedside and seating herself in it, Herminie, taking the orphan's two hands affectionately in hers, said, with tender solicitude:
"I am sure a little rest will do you a world of good, Ernestine. How do you feel now?"
"My head aches a little, that is all."
"What a frightful risk you ran, my dear child."
"I don't deserve so much praise, though, Herminie; I did not think of the danger I was incurring for an instant. I saw the old gentleman fall almost under the wheels of the wagon, it seemed to me. I shrieked, and sprang to his assistance, and though I am not very strong, I succeeded, I scarcely know how, in dragging M. Bernard enough out of the way to prevent him from being crushed."
"You dear, brave child! But the wound on your head—"
"The wheel must have struck me, I suppose, for I became unconscious almost at that same instant, and M. Bernard, on recovering his senses, noticed that I was hurt. But don't let us talk any more about it. I was more frightened than hurt, and my reputation for bravery was very cheaply won."