For some agonizing minutes there was no diminution of her suffering. The children, as children will do all the world over, stood solemnly staring at the course of events, as at things they had not power to alter.
Rona lay and sobbed and hugged herself, until by degrees the intolerable nature of the pain began to lessen. She could draw her breath more easily. The sick, trembling faintness slowly dissipated itself.
The beautiful breeze of the evening wandered by and fanned her white face. Presently she felt able to slip a hand into her pocket for her handkerchief and wipe her forehead and lips with it. She leaned her head against the rough wood of the upright of the balustrade and closed her eyes.
Thank God, the pain was subsiding, and she began, almost at once, to school herself, and resolve that nobody should know what had happened. Nobody! In all her world just then there was but one body, namely—Felix.
Holding by the rail, she very slowly raised herself to her feet.
There, below her on the ground, lay her purse, the scattered coins in it strewn in every direction. The children had not touched it.
She crept down the few remaining steps, and, still obliged to support herself, made signs that they should pick up the money and purse and restore it to her. But the wild things took fright the moment they saw her take notice of them. They fled, and she sat down despairingly, not liking to go away and leave her wealth upon the ground, yet feeling that if she stooped she would faint away.
At the moment she saw Felix approaching. He looked surprised to find her seated upon the dusty step. "Supper is ready," he said. "Will you come?" Then he saw that she was very white, and added hastily, "Are you ill?"
She shook her head without speaking. He came nearer. "Something is the matter," he said.
She spoke with difficulty. "I'm shaken. I fell down these stairs. I trod upon something that—rolled. I am so sorry. If you will excuse me, I will come—soon."