"Are you one of Franklyn's girls, then?" asked Mr. Howell; "and who is this young lady?"
"Monica Beauchamp. Her grandmother lives at Carson Rise, Mydenham."
"Oh, I've heard of her from my girl," and Lily's father had a good look at the object of his child's envious dislike. "We'll send a message to her grandma as soon as the doctor's been."
The door opened, and Mrs. Howell appeared on the scene, followed by a maid bringing water, smelling-salts, and various other remedies. Her plain, homely face wore an expression of anxiety, and she had evidently hurried so much in response to her husband's imperative summons, that she was short of breath.
"Here, Caroline, you'll know best what to do," said Mr. Howell; "see if you can pull her round. I'll be on the look out for the doctor," and he left the room as he spoke.
"Bless me!" was all Mrs. Howell could find breath enough to say, but she busied herself with trying the various restoratives the elderly servant handed to her, and in a few moments Monica opened her eyes.
"Where am I?" she murmured, seeing strange faces bent over her, and Mrs. Howell nudged Olive to speak to her friend.
"You're at Mrs. Howell's, Monica; you hurt your foot, you know. But don't try to talk now. Father will be here directly." She spoke with a confidence she was far from feeling, for it was quite possible that Dr. Franklyn was some distance away.
A spasm of pain passed over Monica's white face. "Oh, my ankle, how it does hurt!" she said, as she tried to alter the position of the injured limb, but could not bear the agony the movement caused.
"Bathe it again, Martha," said Mrs. Howell, to the maid who was standing by. Then she stroked Monica's rumpled hair, kindly, but somewhat hesitatingly, while she murmured, "Poor dear."