towards the hall. "I--I have brought my friend down-stairs. He wants to
thank you before he goes."

As he remained standing in the hall the two women stepped to the door.
To their surprise, half reclining on a cane sofa was the wounded man,
and what could be seen of his slight figure was wrapped in a dark
serape. His beardless face gave him a quaint boyishness quite
inconsistent with the mature lines of his temples and forehead. Pale,
and in pain, as he evidently was, his blue eyes twinkled with intense
amusement. Not only did his manner offer a marked contrast to the sombre
uneasiness of his companion, but he seemed to be the only one perfectly
at his ease in the group around him.

"It's rather rough making you come out here to see me off," he said,
with a not unmusical laugh that was very infectious, "but Ned there,
who carried me downstairs, wanted to tote me round the house in his arms
like a baby to say ta-ta to you all. Excuse my not rising, but I feel as
uncertain below as a mermaid, and as out of my element," he added, with
a mischievous glance at his friend. "Ned concluded I must go on. But I
must say good-by to the old lady first. Ah! here she is."

To Kate's complete bewilderment, not only did the utter familiarity of
this speech, pass unnoticed and unrebuked by her sister, but actually
her own mother advanced quickly with every expression of lively
sympathy, and with the authority of her years and an almost maternal
anxiety endeavored to dissuade the invalid from going. "This is not my
house," she said, looking at her daughter, "but if it were I should
not hear of your leaving, not only to-night, but until you were out of
danger. Josephine! Kate! What are you thinking of to permit it? Well,
then I forbid it--there!"