“Perhaps I can help you,” he said, with a lifting of his hat. “Do you want the cocoon?”
“Yes. Oh, but don’t mind that now! If you can break off the thorn, so I can get my arm out——”
A spasm of pain passed over her face, and Tom acted quickly. He wore heavy gloves, but the thorns pierced even through them. But he did not mind, and soon had broken away the offending branch, not before, however, the girl, in moving her arm, had inflicted a long scratch that bled freely.
“Oh!” she murmured, and she reeled a bit as she stepped back. “I—I can’t bear the sight of blood!” she added.
Tom caught her, or she might have fainted, and then, being a lad of promptness, he quickly bound his handkerchief around the scratch.
“If you will sit down here, I think I can get some water over at that house,” he went on. “It will make you feel better.”
“Oh,” she began, “it is such a bother—I’m so sorry.”
“Not at all,” Tom hastened to assure her, and in a little while he was back with a glass of water. It did make the girl feel better, and, presently, she arose.
“I’m all right, now, thank you,” she murmured, as she walked along. Tom watched her narrowly. “I ought to have worn gloves, or else have brought along a pair of scissors,” she went on. “We have to do some work in the natural history class, and that’s why I wanted the cocoon. I’m at Fairview,” she needlessly added.
“I’m on my way there,” spoke Tom. “My name is Parsons. Ruth Clinton’s brother and I——”