“Get a spoon,” Kit ordered, disregarding him.
He poured the liquor down little Anne’s throat and chafed her wrists. The druggist rubbed her legs.
“What happened to her?” he ventured to ask, plainly doubtful of Kit’s patience. “Who is she?”
“Mr. Peter Berkley’s child. I don’t know what happened. She was standing in the water and fainted just as I came along to fish,” said Kit. Little Anne opened her eyes with a sigh.
“Was it enough? Is it all right?” she murmured and closed her eyes again.
“It was a heap too much, little Anne,” said Kit, tenderly. “Help me get off her wet dress and lend me something to wrap around her, can’t you? Haven’t you a coat?”
“I have a blanket which I use when I sleep in the store,” said the druggist. “Easy to see you have no little girls, Mr. Carrington. Now I have; two. You unbutton their dresses this way.”
“Oh, please don’t, Kit! I’d much rather be undressed at home,” little Anne implored.
“You shall be. Only this wet dress, Nancy-Bell, and then I’ll roll you up in a blanket——”
“Seventy times as high as the moon,” murmured little Anne, feebly submitting.