Within fifteen minutes a telegram went to Washington saying that Earle was very ill and wanted his father.
[CHAPTER XX.]
IN ANGER.
"No, let me alone—'tis better so;
My way and yours are widely far apart.
Why should you stop to grieve about my woe,
And why should I not step across your heart?
A man's heart is a poor thing at the best,
And yours is no whit better than the rest.
Good-by, I say! This is the day's dim close;
Our love is no more worth than last year's rose."
The surgeon had pronounced that life still lingered, although he believed the wound to be a fatal one. But he added that to remove the young man to Rosemont, two miles away, would destroy the last lingering spark of life. He must be carried on a stretcher to the nearest house, then medical skill would do all that was possible.
While he talked he had extracted the bullet from Earle's breast and stanched the flow of blood. He looked up and saw a stranger by his side, a dark, elegant-looking man past middle age.
"Doctor Holdsworth, I am Bruce Conway, an old friend of the Winans family. My home is less than half a mile away, and almost the nearest to this spot. He can be taken there if you please," he said.
"Very well," the surgeon answered briefly, and accordingly Earle was carried gently to the cottage and installed in Bruce Conway's own room. Ladybird was still asleep, or she would have gone wild with the horror of seeing Earle carried into the house on a stretcher, and apparently dead.