She leaned against the side of the stall, and sank slowly down to the ground, with a hand pressed to her knee. Jarvis, on the hay, stirred involuntarily, and with a little cry of alarm the girl struggled to her feet again. At the next instant, as Jarvis spoke gently and his face came into view in the lantern light, she leaned once more, breathing quickly, against the side of the stall. Her face as she stared at him was like that of a startled child.
“You mustn’t stand, you’re not fit,” he said, anxiously. “You ought not to have come. Let me help you back.”
She gazed at him beseechingly. “Please let me stay a few minutes,” she said. Was this meek creature the willful young person of the morning? “I can’t sleep for thinking of her, and I want to make her understand that I’m sorry.”
“I think she does. If she doesn’t, she at least appreciates the tone of your voice. Even a horse might have sense enough for that. Let me bring you something for a seat, if you will stay.”
He found an empty box, covered it with a new blanket, and set it by the side of the stall. She sat down and studied the arrangement of the appliances for the keeping of the mare in the quiet necessary to the healing of the broken leg. Jarvis explained it all to her, and she listened eagerly and attentively. But when he had finished she asked him abruptly:
“Did you hear what I said to Betty?”
“I could hardly help it.”
“Then you heard me say that about being out of temper at not having my own way this morning—when I—really didn’t want my own way.” Her eyes were on Betty’s patient little head.
“Do you expect me to believe that?” he asked, smiling.
“Did I seem to want it?”