“I’m ever so sorry, Larry,” said the girl.
The man smiled, though it was evident to Hetty, whose heart beat fast, that it was only by an effort he retained his self-control.
“Well,” he said, “it can’t be helped, and it was my fault. Still, I never suspected that kind of thing.”
Hetty coloured. “Larry, you mustn’t be bitter—but it was horribly mean. I couldn’t help coming—I was afraid you would fancy I was proud of them.”
“No,” he said, sternly. “I couldn’t have fancied that. There was nothing else?”
“Your head. It is horribly cut. We saw you from the window, and I fancied I could tie it up for you. You wouldn’t mind if I tried, Larry? I have some balsam here, and I only want a little water.”
For a moment Grant’s face was very expressive, but once more he seemed to put a check upon himself, and his voice was almost too even as he pointed to the pitcher beside him. “There is some ready. Your friends don’t treat their prisoners very well.”
The girl winced a little, but dipping her handkerchief in the pitcher she laved his forehead, and then would have laid the dressing on it; but he caught her hand.
“No,” he said, “take mine instead.”
“You needn’t be quite too horrid, Larry,” and there was a quiver in her voice. “It wouldn’t hurt you very much to take a little thing like that from me.”