"I say, you aren't hurt much, are you?" he asked in anxious concern.
"It's—it's my arm," sobbed out the child. "I'm afraid—afraid—"
The little voice died away. Poor "Cinderella" had well-nigh fainted with the pain of a broken arm.
Kenneth, now thoroughly alarmed, rushed to the cottage door and shouted his loudest.
"Gracious me! Whatever is the matter?" It was old Mrs. Russell who answered his call, the one little maid which the household boasted having gone into the town shopping.
"It's Cinder—the little girl, I mean," cried Kenneth agitatedly; "she's tumbled down and hurt her arm."
"You pushed her, I suppose; you great rough boy!" was the old lady's harsh reply. She was so upset that she felt she must scold somebody.
"No—no, I didn't; she fell, and now she's fainted."
"Rubbish!" was the ejaculation. "Ella," she went on, calling in a thin, shrill voice, "pick yourself up, like a good girl, and come in out of the cold. Be quick about it, too."
There was real anxiety in her tone, but to Kenneth it sounded horribly cross and unsympathetic.