Aunt Jane's Nieces
When, half dazed, they scrambled to their feet, the girl lay
motionless before them, a stream of red blood welling from a deep cut
in her forhead, her eyes closed as if in sleep.
A moment more and the boy was kneeling beside her, striving to stay
the bleeding with his handkerchief.
"Do something! For God's sake try to do something," he wailed,
piteously. "Can't you see she's killed herself to save me?"
Uncle John knelt down and took the still form in his arms.
"Quiet, my lad," he said. "She isn't dead. Get Nora, and fetch the
doctor as soon as you can."
The boy was gone instantly, his agony relieved by the chance of
action, and followed by the lawyer, Uncle John carried his niece to
the rose chamber and laid her upon her white bed.
Misery met them, then, and following her came Louise and Beth, full of
horror and pity for the victim of the dreadful accident.
Jane Merrick had promptly recovered consciousness, for fainting spells
were foreign to her nature. Her first words to Phibbs, who was bending
over her, were:
"Is she dead?"
"Who, Miss Jane?"
"Patricia."
"I don't know, Miss Jane. Why should she be dead?"
"Run, you idiot! Run at once and find out. Ask my brother--ask
anyone--if Patricia is dead!"
And so Phibbs came to the rose chamber and found the little group
bending over the girl's unconscious form.
"Is she dead, sir? Miss Jane wants to know," said the old servant, in
awe-struck tones.
"No," answered Uncle John, gravely. "She isn't dead, I'm sure; but I
can't tell how badly she is hurt. One of her legs--the right one--is
broken, I know, for I felt it as I carried the child in my arms; but
we must wait until the doctor comes before I can tell more."
Misery was something of a nurse, it seemed, and with the assistance of
Louise, who proved most helpful in the emergency, she bathed the
wound in the girl's forehead and bandaged it as well as she was able.
Between them the women also removed Patricia's clothing and got her
into bed, where she lay white and still unconscious, but breathing so
softly that they knew she was yet alive.
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There was once an honest journeyman tailor, by name Labakan, who learned his trade with an excellent master in Alexandria. It could not be said that Labakan was unhandy with the needle; on the contrary, he could make excellent work: moreover, one would have done him injustice to have called him lazy. Nevertheless, his companions knew not what to make of him, for he would often sew for hours together so rapidly that the needle would glow in his hand, and the thread smoke, and that none could equal him.
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