Had Mr. Pryor been at home, Helena would, no doubt, have found some
way of dismissing him; as it was, she let him stay. He was bareheaded;
he had seen a bird flapping painfully about in the road, and catching
it in gentle hands had discovered that its wing was broken, so put it
tenderly in his cap and brought it to Mrs. Richie's door.

"Poor little thing!" she cried, when he showed it to her. "I wish Mr.
Pryor would come back; he would tell us what to do for it."

"Oh, is he here?" Sam asked blankly.

"Well, not at this moment. He has gone to take tea at Dr. King's."
Sam's face lightened with relief.

"You mustn't tell anybody you saw me this evening," she charged him
gayly. "I didn't go to Mrs. King's because--I had such a very bad
headache!"

"Is it better?" he asked, so anxiously that she blushed.

"Oh, yes, yes. But before tea I--didn't want to go."

"I'm glad you didn't," he said, and forgot her in caring for the bird.
He ordered a box and some cotton batting--"and give me your
handkerchief." As he spoke, he took it from her surprised hand and
tore it into strips; then, lifting the broken wing with exquisite
gentleness, he bound it into place. She looked at the bandages
ruefully, but Sam was perfectly matter-of-course. "It would have been
better without lace," he said; "but it will do. Will you look at him
sometimes? Just your touch will cure him, I think."