"I wouldn't exert myself," he said. "You've just suf-
fered an accident, and it's better that you remain quiet."
"Who are you?" asked the girl, a note of suppressed
terror in her voice. "You are not--?"
"I am no one you know," replied Bridge. "My friend
and I chanced to be near when you fell from the car--"
with that innate refinement which always belied his vo-
cation and his rags Bridge chose not to embarrass the
girl by a too intimate knowledge of the thing which
had befallen her, preferring to leave to her own volition
the making of any explanation she saw fit, or of none
--"and we carried you in here out of the storm."
The girl was silent for a moment. "Where is 'here'?"
she asked presently. "They drove so fast and it was so
dark that I had no idea where we were, though I know
that we left the turnpike."
"We are at the old Squibbs place," replied the man.
He could see that the girl was running one hand gin-
gerly over her head and face, so that her next question
did not surprise him.
"Am I badly wounded?" she asked. "Do you think that
I am going to die?" The tremor in her voice was pathetic
--it was the voice of a frightened and wondering child.
Bridge heard the boy behind him move impulsively for-
ward and saw him kneel on the bed beside the girl.
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