“Then his hurts are not serious?”
“No,” said Carrington, “they are not in any sense serious.”
“May I see him?”
“He's pretty well bandaged up, so he looks worse off than he is. If you'll wait on the porch, I'll tell him you are here,” for Betty had dismounted.
“If you please.”
Carrington passed on into the house. His face wore a look of somber repression. Of course it was all right for her to come and see Norton—they were old, old friends. He entered the room where Norton lay.
“Miss Malroy is here,” he said shortly.
“Betty?—bless her dear heart!” cried Charley rather weakly. “Just toss my clothes into the closet and draw up a chair... There-thank you, Bruce, that will do—let her come along in now.” And as Carrington quitted the room, Norton drew himself up on the pillows and faced the door. “This is worth several beatings, Betty!” he exclaimed as she appeared on the threshold. But much cotton and many bandages lent him a rather fearful aspect, and Betty paused with a little gasp of dismay. “I'm lots better than I look, I expect,” said Norton. “Couldn't you arrange to come a little closer?” he added, laughing.
He bent to kiss the hand she gave him, but groaned with the exertion. Then he looked up into her face and saw her eyes swimming with tears.
“What—tears? Tears for me, Betty?” and he was much moved.