"It's some of master Jo's work, I'll be bound."
Mrs. Kent reached the scene first, and saw Berty shielding himself behind a door, his face pale with fright. Ida was sobbing in her grandmother's arms, while Mary, with the assistance of the servant, was holding Joseph in a chair by main force.
"What is it? What is the matter?" inquired Mrs. Kent, much alarmed.
"Look at Ida's face; and you will see," answered Mary, half crying. "I believe this wicked boy would have killed her, if we hadn't held him."
"I hate her! I do! I wish she'd go home! I hate Berty, too!" screamed Joseph, struggling to be free.
"Let mother see, darling," said Mrs. Kent, tenderly taking Ida in her arms.
Grandma sat rocking herself to and fro, tears streaming down her pale face, too much agitated to speak.
"O Ida!" sobbed her mother. "My poor darling."
Mr. Mason caught a glimpse of the torn face, which was still bleeding. And, only stopping to ask—"Did Joseph do that?"—seized the boy and gave him a blow with his fist, which sent him sprawling on the floor.
"Have you any arnica?" asked Mr. Kent, his mouth growing every moment more stern. "Mary, won't you wet a cloth and lay on the face? I shall send for a physician at once. I fear the eye is seriously injured."