THE GOSSIPS AWAKE
It was dark when they reached the village, but Wayland declared his ability to go on, although his wounded head was throbbing with fever and he was clinging to the pommel of his saddle; so Berrie rode on.
Mrs. McFarlane, hearing the horses on the bridge, was at the door and received her daughter with wondering question, while the stable-hands, quick to detect an injured man, hurried to lift Norcross down from his saddle.
“What’s the matter?” repeated Mrs. McFarlane.
“He fell and struck his head on a stone,” Berea hastily explained. “Take the horses, boys, mother and I will look out for Mr. Norcross.”
The men obeyed her and fell back, but they were consumed with curiosity, and their glances irritated the girl. “Slip the packs at once,” she insisted.
With instant sympathy her mother came to her aid in supporting the wounded, weary youth indoors, and as he stretched out on the couch in the sitting-room, he remarked, with a faint, ironic smile: “This beats any bed of balsam boughs.”
“Where’s your father?” asked Mrs. McFarlane of her daughter.
“He’s over on the Ptarmigan. I’ve a powerful lot to tell you, mother; but not now; we must look after Wayland. He’s nearly done up, and so am I.”
Mrs. McFarlane winced a little at her daughter’s use of Norcross’s first name, but she said nothing further at the moment, although she watched Berrie closely while she took off Wayland’s shoes and stockings and rubbed his icy feet. “Get him something hot as quick as you can!” she commanded; and Mrs. McFarlane obeyed without a word.