"Lives on Myrtle Boulevard?"
"Yes."
"Henery, you old dumbhead, open that door and get a light in the parlour. Land sakes, men is fools. Bring the child right in here. Dear, dear, Martin Claybourne's little girl hurt and you standing there shutting the door in her face—how you expect to answer to your Maker on the great day, the Lord only knows. Where are you hurt, darling?" This to Helen as I almost carried her in and laid her on the best horsehair sofa.
"I've only wrenched my knee, thank you," Helen smiled.
"I'll get you a hot poultice just as soon as I get a fire in the stove. We'll fix you all up while the men folks are telephoning. I do believe I've got a bottle of arnica up in the store closet," and she shooed "Henery" and me out of the room. I had the luck to get Mr. Claybourne on the telephone almost immediately, and partly explained to him the situation, as far as the accident was concerned, while "Henery" contributed directions where to reach us: "Tell him it's Five Mile Farm on South Ridge—Henery Tyler's place." This done, "Henery" assisted me to put the horses in the barn and to make Leonidas fast to a post. I was now anxious to return to Helen, but "Henery" put obstacles in the way: "Better leave the womenfolk alone—pertickly as you ain't married, till Mary gets that poultice fixed." I brushed his objections aside and went into the parlour. Mrs. Tyler let out a piercing shriek, for poor Helen's bare and badly swollen knee was exposed to view. Helen laughed: "It's all right, Mrs. Tyler—Ted and I—well, I want him to help."
"Land sakes!" exclaimed Mrs. Tyler, "I remember you in short dresses—seems like it was only yesterday, walkin' down Myrtle Boulevard with your dad—and do you mean to say you and him—?"
"Yes," Helen said with a dear look at me, covering her knee shyly. I rushed to her side, seizing the arnica bottle to disguise my confusion.
"My, my, how time flies!" Mrs. Tyler continued, moralizing the spectacle from beneath her curl papers. "Why, you ain't no more'n a child. How long you been keepin' company?"
"Not very long," Helen replied, her hand in mine. "You won't let that poultice burn, will you, Mrs. Tyler?"
"Land sakes, no! Clean forgot all about it. To think that numbskull Henery tried to shut the door in your face, and the minister preachin' about the good Samaritan only last Sunday—" and she mercifully departed in search of the poultice. We could hear her in the kitchen giving "Henery" an additional "piece of her mind," as she would have called it.