"A little weak, that is all. Now, I will tell you all about it."
In the fewest words possible, I told my story, and ended by saying:
"Mrs. Ballou, you, as a woman, will not be watched or suspected; may I leave with you the task of telling 'Squire Ewing and Mr. Rutger what has happened to me?"
"You may," with decision.
"And I must get away from here before others know how much or little I am injured. Can your woman's wit help me? I want it given out that my arm is broken. Do you comprehend me?"
"Perfectly. Then no one here must see you, and—you should have that wound dressed by a good surgeon, I think. There is a train to the city to-morrow at seven. I will get up in the morning at three o'clock, make us a cup of coffee, harness the horses, and drive you to Sharon."
"You?" I exclaimed.
"Yes, I! Why not? It's the only way. And now, would you mind showing me that letter?"
I took it from my pocket-book and put it in her hand. She read it slowly, and then looked up.
"Why did you not heed this warning?" she asked.