Chapter Eight.
“How I do Hate That Girl!”
“Oh! my poor darling!”
It was Mrs Berens who spoke; the accident, and its consequent call upon her for aid, having in an instant swept away all thought of self, and shown her at once in her best colours, full of true womanly sympathy.
Leo stood leaning against the hedge, dazed and perfectly helpless, while Mrs Berens came running out to help; but only to rush in again and return with a decanter and water.
“Is she—is she—”
“Hush!” whispered the doctor sternly; “try and pour a few more drops between her lips, and keep on bathing her forehead till I get her out.”
Mrs Berens was down upon her knees on one side of Mary Salis, with her hands and delicate dress bedabbled with blood; but she did not heed the dust or hideous stains as she passed her left arm beneath the poor girl’s neck, and held her with her cut and bruised face resting upon her bosom, while the doctor tore hard at the crooked woodwork and iron which held the sufferer pinned down.