Just as Mary was preparing to say good-bye to my little place, late that same day,—for her vigils over me were no longer necessary,—Rita Clark ran in, flushed with hurried rowing and labouring under a strong excitement. She flashed defiance at Mary, then she threw herself at my feet and sobbed as if her little heart would break.
I put my hand on her head and tried to comfort her, and, when I looked up again, she and I were alone.
"Rita, Rita!" I admonished.
"Oh!—no one told me," she wailed. "And it was all my fault. I know I should not have come when Joe was that way about it.
"If he had killed you! Oh! George,—if he had killed you!"
Her eyes were red from weeping and dread still showed in her expressive face.
"There, there," I comforted. "He did not kill me, Rita, so why worry?
"I shall be back at work in the store to-morrow, same as before. Cheer up, little girl!"
"But nobody at the Camp can understand it," she went on with more composure. "They all knew there had been a fight. They were sure you had been killed, for nobody ever stands up against Joe without coming down harder than he does, and they say Joe was pretty nearly done for."
"How is he now?" I inquired, inquisitive to know if he were suffering at least some of what I had suffered.