"Did Ranter hurt you much?" asked Mike, kindly.
"Very badly, I'm afraid," said Jake, almost frantic with pain and fright.
Mike said he was sorry, and expressed his wonder that Ranter could be so cruel. Then he ran and called his father, who was busy in another part of the meadow, when the accident happened, and who did not hear Jake's call for help. Mr. Marble had the boy taken to his house, where his wound was nicely dressed, and where the utmost care was taken of him by the whole family, among whom Mike was the foremost. It was two or three days before it was thought prudent to remove the sufferer to his father's house; and during that time there was no one, not even Jacob's own mother, who was more kind and attentive to him than Mike Marble.
The time came when the wounded boy was able to go home. An hour or two before the wagon was to come for him, he was sitting in an easy chair, with the wounded arm lying on a pillow, and Mike, as usual, was at his side. There happened to be no one else in the chamber besides the two boys.
"Mike," said the other, "I want to say something to you."
"What is it?" asked Mike.
"I don't know how to say it," was the answer.
And there was a pause. Jacob had undertaken a task which was entirely new to him, and he did not know how to begin it. At length he tried again:
"Mike," said he, "I struck you once—it was a good while ago—do you remember it?"
"Yes," Mike said.