Hardly had the parson seated himself at the table ere several piercing shrieks fell upon his ears. Rushing to the door he beheld John Medley hurrying towards the house with arms at right angles, and his face as pale as death.
"Child! Child! What is it?" shouted Mrs. Stickles.
"R-r-uth's k-k-illed! She f-f-ell from the la-la-der. Oh! Oh!"
Waiting to hear no more they hurried to the barn, and there they found the little form lying on the floor, still grasping in her hand the precious package.
"My poor lamb! My darlin' baby! are ye kilt, are ye kilt?" wailed Mrs. Stickles, kneeling down by her side. "Speak to me, my lamb, my little baby! Oh, speak to yer mammy!"
But no sign of recognition came from the prostrate child. Seeing this the mother sprang to her feet and wrung her hands in agony of despair.
"What will we do? Oh, what kin we do? My baby is kilt--my poor darlin'! Oh--oh--oh!"
Tenderly Parson John lifted the child in his arms, carried her into the house, and laid her on the settle near the stove. It was found that she was breathing, and soon a little water brought some color into her face. Presently she opened her eyes, and started up, but fell back again, with a cry of pain, fiercely clutching the package.
"What is it, dear?" asked the parson. "Where is the pain?"
"My leg! My leg!" moaned the child.