"No, father, it isn't that," she said. "I and Nora are alone, I—get down please, father, won't you?"
"Why, what's the matter with you child?" The Squire hastily dismounted. "Are you hurt, Kit? What a red, excited face."
"No, 'tisn't me, it's Nora. She fell; I think she'll die. It was my fault. The beech tree had a rotten bough, and I crept out on it, as I didn't wish to be caught; and Nora followed me, and the bough broke, and she's lying on her back now and she can't move, and I think she'll die, and they're all away—I don't know where—somewhere else in the wood, and I think she's going to die, and it's my fault."
"There, Kitty, keep your pecker up," said the Squire. "I'm glad I came round this way; it was a lucky chance. Wait a minute until I tie Black Bess to this tree. Where is Nora?"
"Over there, lying on that knoll of grass. I think she'll die."
"Tut, tut, monkey, what do you know about people dying? Give me your hand, and bring me to her."
Oh, the comfort to Kitty of that firm, cool, strong hand of father's—oh, the support of looking into his face. A burden as of black night was lifted from her. She ran in eager accompaniment to his great strides. He was bending over Nora in a minute.
"Now, my poor little maid, what is this?" he asked, dropping on one knee and trying to put his hand under her head as he spoke.
Nora opened her pretty, dark eyes.
"Oh, father, is it you? I'm glad," she said in a faint voice. "I've been naughty, father; I—I'm sorry."