“But what is the matter, Ranald?”
“He was hurted bad—and he is not right wise in his head.”
“But how was he hurt?”
Ranald hesitated.
“I was not there—I am thinking it was something that struck him.”
“Ah, a tree! But where did the tree strike him?”
“Here,” pointing to his breast; “and it is sore in his breathing.”
“Well, Ranald, if you put the saddle on Pony, I shall be ready in a minute.”
Jessie was indignant.
“You will not stir a foot this night. You will send some medicine, and then you can go in the morning.”