When she reached home she groped her way into the living-room, which was lighted only by the low, red gleam of the coals on the hearth. Her father's gruff voice called out from the bedroom beyond: “That you, Madelon?”
“Yes,” said she, and lighted a candle at the coals.
“Have the boys come?”
“No.”
Madelon went up the steep stairs to her chamber, but before she opened her door her brother Louis's voice, broken with pain, besought her to come into his room and bathe his sprained shoulder for him. She went in, set the candle on the table, and rubbed in the cider-brandy and wormwood without a word. Louis, in the midst of his pain, kept looking up wonderingly at his sister's face. It looked as if it were frozen. She did not seem to see him. Nothing about her seemed alive but her gently moving hands.
Suddenly he gave a startled cry. “What's that? Have you cut your hand, Madelon?” Madelon glanced at her hand, and there was a broad red stain over the palm and three of her fingers.
“No,” said she, and went on rubbing.
“But it looks like blood!” cried Louis, knitting his pale brows at her.
Madelon made no reply.
“Madelon, what is that on your hand?”