Once more she nodded, and, for the first time, let her eyes drop,
while she sat nursing her knees. Finally, she glanced up, and asked
with plucked-up courage:

"Stranger, what mout yore name be?"

"Lescott--George Lescott."

"How'd ye git hurt?"

He shook his head.

"I was painting--up there," he said; "and I guess I got too absorbed
in the work. I stepped backward to look at the canvas, and forgot where
the edge was. I stepped too far."

"Hit don't hardly pay a man ter walk backward in these hyar
mountings," she told him. The painter looked covertly up to see if at
last he had discovered a flash of humor. He had the idea that her lips
would shape themselves rather fascinatingly in a smile, but her pupils
mirrored no mirth. She had spoken in perfect seriousness.

The man rose to his feet, but he tottered and reeled against the wall
of ragged stone. The blow on his head had left him faint and dizzy. He
sat down again.

"I'm afraid," he ruefully admitted, "that I'm not quite ready for
discharge from your hospital."