She again leaned forward, and tried to take off the boot; but the pain was too great, and she sank back, and put her hand up to her flushed face.
“May I try?—perhaps I could do it.”
“Yes, pray do. Oh, I can't bear the pain!” she added, next moment; and Tom felt ready to hang himself for having been the cause of it.
“You must cut the boot off, please.”
“But perhaps I may cut you. Do you really mean it?”
“Yes, really. There, take care. How your hand shakes. You will never do for a doctor.”
His hand did shake, certainly. He had cut a little hole the stocking; but, under the circumstances, we need not wonder—the situation was new and trying. Urged on by her, he cut and cut away, and, at last, off came the boot, and her beautiful little foot lay on the green turf. She was much relieved at once, but still in great pain; and now he began to recover his head.
“The ankle should be bound up; may I try?”
“Oh, yes; but what with?”
Tom dived into his shooting-coat pocket, and produced one of the large, many-colored neck-wrappers which were fashionable at Oxford in those days.