"Buckland!" called the soft voice of Flora, "You may come in now."
"How is the girl?" I asked.
"She is nicely now. I have rubbed her, put dry clothes upon her, and covered her up with blankets in my bed. She wants to see you."
I followed Flora into her room. The stranger, with the exception of her head, was buried in the blankets, and by the dim light of the lantern I saw as pretty a face as it ever had been my good fortune to behold before. I had hardly seen her until now; certainly my first impressions of her features and expression were derived from this observation, rather than from any former one. She had a very mild, soft blue eye; but she looked quite sad and troubled.
"I wish to tell you how grateful I am to you for saving my life," said she. "I shall never forget your kindness, and I hope I may be able to do something more for you."
"O, never mind that," I replied. "That's all right. I'm glad I had a chance to do as I did."
"You are a brave and noble young man, and you saved my life. It may do for you to forget it, but it will not do for me to do so."
"I won't complain if you do;" and as all heroes say under similar circumstances, I told her I had only done my duty.
"Yet I almost wish you had not saved me," she added, with a shudder, as her eyes suddenly filled with tears.
"Why so?" I asked, though I had not much difficulty in reading the cause of her sadness.