“But the children,” cried Berty, in dismay,—“what will become of the children?”
“Sure, ye know I’ll not let them suffer, Berty,” said Tim. “Never you worry for them.”
“Yes, we’ll take care of the children,” said the Doctor. “Never fear for them. Now, Berty, see how still you can lie; and you, Madam, keep hold of this hand while I feel of that poor shoulder again;” and, with a single dexterous motion, Dr. John brought the bone back to its wonted place. Berty had been too much taken by surprise to cry out at first, and when it was over she felt too faint even to groan.
“You are a brave little girl,” said the Doctor, wiping the pale face tenderly and holding a glass of water to Berty’s lips. “The worst is over; it is only to dress the arm now and attend to one or two other little matters. My boy,” turning to Tim, “you may go down to the carriage,—I think Tom is back by this time,—and tell him to drive home with you, and ask Mrs. Grey to put up a good basket of provisions. By the time you are back again I shall be ready to go with you.”
Tim telegraphed, in answer to Berty’s imploring look, that he would take care of the pocket-book, and would not betray her; for Tim, it must be remembered, had not the slightest notion to whom it belonged, not having noticed little Mary’s question, and he would not, for the world, have exposed Berty to the risk of going to the Tombs by taking it to the station-house now: and yet the honest boy could not help feeling almost guilty as he put the package in his pocket and went down to the carriage.
“Now we are rid of the boy,” said Dr. John, who had been all the time busily at work putting splints and bandages upon the broken arm,—“now we are rid of the boy, we’ll attend to that bruise on the side and the sprained ankle; and then I think you can change her clothing a little, perhaps. Does your arm feel better now, my dear?”
“Much better,” answered Berty, faintly; “but oh, my side!”
The side was, indeed, the worst injury, for the horse’s hoof had struck there, tearing off the skin and inflicting a frightful bruise. The Doctor feared at first that a rib was broken, but finally concluding it was not, he dressed the wound carefully and bandaged the sprained ankle. Then the good nurse put on a little white night-gown in place of the soiled and torn dress; and, by the time Tim came back, Berty was much more comfortable, though still very faint and in great pain.
“Your sister is a right brave little girl,” said Dr. John, as Tim came to the bedside. “I never had a grown-up patient who behaved better.”
“Berty’s not one of the whining sort,” Tim answered; “but, sir, she’s not my sister at all.”