"We must get her home," observed Jan.
"There are no means of getting her home in her present state, unless she is carried," said Mr. Bourne.
"That's easy enough," returned Jan. And he caught her up in his long arms, apparently having to exert little strength in the action. "Put her petticoats right, will you?" cried he, in his unceremonious fashion.
The clergyman put her things as straight as he could, as they hung over Jan's arm. "You'll never be able to carry her, Jan," said he.
"Not carry her!" returned Jan. "I could carry you, if put to it."
And away he went, bearing his burden as tenderly and easily as though it had been a little child. Mr. Bourne could hardly keep pace with him.
"You go on, and have the door open," said Jan, as they neared the cottage. "We must get her in without the mother hearing, upstairs."
They had the kitchen to themselves. Hook, the father, a little the worse for what he had taken, had gone to bed, leaving the door open for his children. They got her in quietly, found a light, and placed her in a chair. Jan took off her bonnet and shawl—he was handy as a woman; and looked about for something to give her. He could find nothing except water. By and by she got better.
Her first movement, when she fully recovered her senses, was to clutch hold of Jan on the one side, of Mr. Bourne on the other.
"Is it gone?" she gasped, in a voice of the most intense terror.