"Dinsmore, you're a brute!" exclaimed Travilla indignantly, as he placed her gently on a sofa.
Horace made no reply, but, with a face almost as pale as her own, bent over his little daughter in speechless alarm, while one of the guests, who happened to be a physician, hastily dressed the wound, and then applied restoratives.
It was some time ere consciousness returned, and the father trembled with the agonizing fear that the gentle spirit had taken its flight.
But at length the soft eyes unclosed, and gazing with a troubled look into his face, bent so anxiously over her, she asked, "Dear papa, are you angry with me?"
"No, darling," he replied in tones made tremulous with emotion, "not at all."
"What was it?" she asked in a bewildered way; "what did I do? what has happened?"
"Never mind, daughter," he said, "you have been ill; but you are better now, so don't think any more about it."
"She had better be put to bed at once," said the physician.
"There is blood on my dress," cried Elsie, in a startled tone; "where did it come from?"
"You fell and hurt your head," replied her father, raising her gently in his arms; "but don't talk any more now."