“There need be no broil,” said Ralph, laying the insensible form on a seat and proceeding to strip off the wet outer garments. Then turning to the hostess, he said,—
“Martha, bring me water, quick.”
Martha turned about and obeyed him without a word.
“He'll be better soon,” said Ralph to Robbie Anderson. He was sprinkling water on the white face that lay before him. Robbie had recovered his wakefulness, and was kneeling at Sim's feet, chafing his hands.
Rotha stood at her father's side, motionless.
“There, he's coming to. Martha,” said Ralph, “hadn't you better take Rotha to the kitchen fire?”
The two women left the room.
Sim's eyes opened; there was a watery humor in them which was not tears. The color came back to his cheeks, but with the return of consciousness his face grew thinner and more haggard. He heaved a heavy sigh, and seemed to realize his surroundings. With the only hand disengaged (Robbie held one of them) he clutched at Ralph's belt.
“I'm better—let me go,” he said in a hoarse voice, trying to rise.
“No!” said Ralph,—“no!” and he gently pushed him back into his recumbent position.