"Ef I'd a-knowed this I'd 'a' killed
the dirty scamp!"
"I'm all right," replied Westerfelt; "just a little loss of blood."
But his voice was faint and his eyelids drooped despite his effort to
keep them open. Worthy rapped at the door and was admitted.
"Doc Lash has rid out to Widow Treadwell's," he announced. "He's been
sent fer, an' ort ter git heer before long. It'll take a hour to git
Wells, even ef he's at home."
Harriet Floyd glanced at her mother when she heard this. Her knees
ached and her fingers felt stiff and numb, but she dared not stir.
Once Westerfelt opened his eyes and looked down at her.
"Do I hurt you?" she asked, softly.
"Not a bit." He smiled, and his eyes lingered on her face till their
lids dropped over them.
Chapter VII
Dr. Lash came a little earlier than he was expected. The wound was not
really a fatal one, he said, but if Miss Harriet had not been so
attentive and skilful in keeping the cut closed, the man would have
bled to death.
Westerfelt dropped to sleep, and when he awoke it was night. A lamp,
the light of which was softened by a pink shade, stood on a
sewing-machine near the fireplace.
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