“Captain Bebberly lived near here, ’afore he wented away,” suggested Francie. “I came this way to his house once.”
“Of course,” exclaimed Mary, in a tone of relief, “the back way to the Edge Farm cannot be a quarter of a mile off. Look, Francie, dear, run back to the lane, and run on about as far as you can see from this gate. Then you’ll see another gate on your left—the other side from this—that gate will take you into a field which you must cross, and go through a stile, and then you’ll see Captain Beverley’s,”—even now she seemed to shrink a little from pronouncing the name—“Captain Beverley’s house. Go in and tell the first person you meet to come as quick as he can, and bring some water. Tell him it is Miss Cheviott that is hurt, and tell him where we are. Quick, darling, as quick as ever you can.”
Francie lingered for one instant.
“There won’t be none dogs, will there, Mary?” she said, her voice trembling a little.
“I think not,” said Mary. “And if there are, Francie, you must ask God not to let them hurt you. That’s what being brave means, dear.”
She said it, feeling that all her own nerve and bravery were being called for. If only she could have run across the fields with Francie—but to sit here, able to do nothing, watching the terrible stillness of the girl’s face—
It seemed hours before there came any change. At last a faint, gasping sigh reached Mary’s ears—a slight, very slight quiver ran through the form she held so tenderly, and Alys Cheviott opened her eyes—opened them, alas! but to close them again with a quick consciousness of pain.
“My back,” she whispered—“oh, my back! what have I done to it? Oh!”
Then she lay quiet for a minute or two, Mary not daring to move or speak—scarcely to breathe, till again Miss Cheviott opened her eyes.
“Where am I?” she said. “What has happened? Who is holding me? Laurence, is it you? I cannot move; it hurts me so. Where is Gypsy?”