Then she felt that she was being lifted, and in her dream she heard the Dame's deep voice:
"Push her through the wicket—hurry, Joan, she must be off the Farm soon or it will be too late, poor child! Is Karen saddled? Push her!—make haste, make haste! I hear the river—make haste, there! Push!"
"I will not leave the Farm! I will not!" she muttered and struggled to wake and fight with Joan. The red sun cut her opening eyes like a knife, she fought the arms that held her arms and struggled awake, staring into Joan's brown eyes.
But was it Joan? Joan wore no white cap, no tight black dress. The red glow in her eyes, was it the sun or a crimson cushion beneath her head? Whose stern, bearded lips unbent and smiled at her?
"Push, keep pushing!" he said, and raised and lowered her arms.
"Smell this, dear friend," and a strong, smarting odour filled her nostrils, so that she coughed and choked.
"That is better," said someone; "we were frightened. Why did you not tell us your heart was weaker than usual?"
The office nurse fanned her; a strong light was in her face.
"The doctor felt terribly about you—that cordial was not so very strong, he thought. You are all right, now?"
"It was Lotte that kept the cordial-room," she said vaguely, but with speaking her mind cleared and she came to herself again.