“She’s alive,” he said.
“Thank God!”
“Quick,” Jim hurried on, “water and a sponge, or towel or something.”
Peter crossed the room to the barrel, and dipped out some water; and, further, he procured a washing flannel, and hastened back with them to Jim, who was kneeling supporting the girl’s wounded head upon his hand.
And all the time Elia, as though in sheer idle curiosity, watched the scene, steadily continuing his meal the 163 while. There was no sort of feeling expressed in his cold eyes. Nor did he display the least relief when Jim assured him Eve was alive. Peter watched the boy, and while Jim bathed her wounded forehead with a tenderness which was something almost maternal, he questioned him with some exasperation.
“How did it happen?” he demanded, his steady eyes fixed disapprovingly on the lad’s face.
“Don’t know. Guess she must ha’ fell some. Ther’s suthin’ red on the edge o’ the coal box. Mebbe it’s her blood.”
The cold indifference angered even Peter.
“And you sit there with her, maybe, dying. Say, you’re pretty mean.”
The boy’s indifference suddenly passed. He glanced at Eve, then at the door, and he stirred uneasily.