“I thought you were there, Dorothy!”
“I was there quite long enough. Shep pulled me out; I was too tired to help myself much.” Dorothy held her palm pressed against her temple and the blood trickled from beneath, streaking her pale, wet cheek.
“He's gone to the house to get me a cloak. I don't want mother to see me, not yet,” she said.
“I'm afraid you ought not to wait, Dorothy. Let me take you to the house, won't you? I'm afraid you'll get a deadly chill.”
Dorothy did not look in the least like death. She was blushing now, because Evesham would think it so strange of her to stay, and yet she could not rise in her wet clothes, that clung to her like the calyx to a bud.
“Let me see that cut, Dorothy!”
“Oh, it's nothing. I don't wish thee to look at it!”
“But I will! Do you want to make me your murderer, sitting there in your wet clothes with a cut on your head?”
He drew away her hand; the wound, indeed, was no great affair, but he bound it up deftly with strips of his handkerchief. Dorothy's wet curls touched his fingers and clung to them, and her eyelashes drooped lower and lower.
“I think it was very stupid of thee. Didn't thee hear us from the dam? I'm sure we made noise enough.”