blood-soaked handkerchief. Egbert bent forward, too, keeping more
_sangfroid_ in his face than in his heart. Winifred went all of a lump of
seriousness, so he had to keep some reserve. The child moaned and
whimpered.

The knee was still bleeding profusely--it was a deep cut right in the
joint.

'You'd better go for the doctor, Egbert,' said Winifred bitterly.

'Oh, no! Oh, no!' cried Joyce in a panic.

'Joyce, my darling, don't cry!' said Winifred, suddenly catching the
little girl to her breast in a strange tragic anguish, the _Mater
Dolorata_. Even the child was frightened into silence. Egbert looked at
the tragic figure of his wife with the child at her breast, and turned
away. Only Annabel started suddenly to cry: 'Joycey, Joycey, don't have
your leg bleeding!'

Egbert rode four miles to the village for the doctor. He could not help
feeling that Winifred was laying it on rather. Surely the knee itself
wasn't hurt! Surely not. It was only a surface cut.

The doctor was out. Egbert left the message and came cycling swiftly
home, his heart pinched with anxiety. He dropped sweating off his bicycle
and went into the house, looking rather small, like a man who is at
fault. Winifred was upstairs sitting by Joyce, who was looking pale and
important in bed, and was eating some tapioca pudding. The pale, small,
scared face of his child went to Egbert's heart.