"Oh!—just a scratch, Maisie."
"Won't you let me bind it for you, sir, before you go?" she pleaded.
"It isn't worth the trouble, Maisie."
Tears came to those pretty eyes of hers; so, to please her, I consented.
"All right," I cried, "but hurry, for I have no more business in here now than a thief would have."
She did not understand my meaning, but she left me and was back in a moment with a basin of hot water, a sponge, balsam and bandages.
I slipped off my coat and rolled up my sleeve, then, as Maisie's gentle fingers sponged away the congealed blood and soothed the throb, I began to discover, from the intense relief, how painful had been the hurt, mere superficial thing as it was.
She poured on some balsam and bound up the cut; all gentleness, all tenderness, like a mother over her babe.
"There is a little jag here, Maisie, that aches outrageously now that the other has been lulled to sleep." I pointed to my breast.
She undid my shirt, and, as she surveyed the damage, she cried out in anxiety.