“Yes,” he replied, briskly. “One couldn’t have got a carriage down there, and I could hardly have packed you into Farmer Ward’s wheelbarrow!”
“Did anyone see you carry me across the fields?”
“Mrs. Popham did,” he said, laughing at the recollection. “She even offered to help me! A woman who could hardly lift a fly!”
“I must have looked awful!” Mrs. Elles pondered; she had often thought it over. “A wet woman is such an abject object!... And then you carried me up to bed?”
“Yes. Mrs. Watson was very anxious to get her son, Jock, to do it—but I thought of Jock and how he would have knocked your head against the banisters at every step, so I insisted on doing it myself.”
“And then?”
“And then the doctor came, and saw you, and saw me, and told me it was not much—and then I was easier in my mind.”
“Then you were anxious about me?”
“Very,” he said. “Poor thing, you suffered so; and you were so good about it!”
“Was I? I am glad.”