"It's too late now," he said contentedly. "Does the foot hurt?"
"Not much, thank you--thank you, Mr.----"
He was obdurately silent. She tried again.
"Thank you, Mr. ----. Please, what's your name?"
"'Puddin' Tame,'" he laughed.
"'Where do you live?'" she chanted delightedly.
"'Down the lane.' No, _you_ live down the lane."
"It isn't far now. Are you tired?"
"Oh, no! I'm doing very well, thank you."
"Perhaps you'd better rest."
"By no means. I hope you live over the hills and far away."
"You aren't bashful, are you, Mr. Puddin' Tame?"
"H'm." He peered down at the injured ankle. "How's the foot?"
"A little--cold."
"I'm afraid the wrench has interfered with the circulation. Poor child!"
"Really, it doesn't hurt--not much."
"I see you were born to be a heroine."
"And you're a 'knight comes riding by, riding by, riding by'----"
"'So early in the morning,'" he finished. "If the knight were sure you
thought so"--his eyes were on her cheek--"he might claim a knight's
reward."
She fell abruptly silent.
The Maryland spring was well advanced, and the path along which they
moved was carpeted with flowers. The blue bells of the wild myrtle swung
almost at their feet. Scarlet runners rioted over the low stone wall at
their hand. The sycamores and oaks were clothed in tenderest green.
Beyond the left-hand wall, rows of peach-trees marched away, flaunting
banners of pink and white.
Fessenden heard the tinkle of the brook, winding in the shadow of
overhanging banks. Sights and sounds lulled him. He felt himself in
harmony with the quiet mood of the girl in his arms.
Truly this was an unexpected adventure! His eyes rested upon the piquant
face so near his own. It possessed a refinement of outline that was
belied by the humble fashion of her gown and by the position in which he
had surprised her. The precocious daughter of a farmer, perhaps, or at
best the neglected child of one of the war-ruined "first families of the
South."
He found himself speculating upon the sort of house he was likely to
discover at the end of the lane--perhaps a crumbling colonial mansion,
equipped with a Confederate colonel and a faithful former slave or two.
He smiled unconsciously at the red mouth, and was somewhat disconcerted
to find the blue eyes watching him.
"Were you making fun of me, Mr. Puddin' Tame?"
"Word of honor, no! I was smiling to be in harmony with the day, I
fancy."
"Maryland _is_ lovely. You're a Northern man, aren't you?"
"I freely admit it. But I'm on my way to a house-party at Sandywood."
"Sandywood?"
"Yes. You know it, of course?"
"Of course. It's just over the hill from the Landis house--our house.
Sandywood is the old Cary place."
"I don't know. I'm to visit a family named Cresap."
"It's the same place. The Cresaps are only occupying it for a while."
"Then you know Mrs. Cresap?"
"Hum-m. Aunty Landis knows her, but I suppose she doesn't know _us_--not
in the way you mean. I live with Aunt Katey Landis at White Cottage.
Uncle Bob Landis supplies Sandywood with eggs and butter and milk."
"Oh, I see."
"You've never been on the Eastern Shore before?"
"Never. But I've learned to like it already. To rescue a girl from
man-eating eels, and----"
"Girls don't go in wading every day, even on the Eastern Shore."
"If they did, I'd walk over from the railroad station straight through
the year."
"From Sandywood Station?"
"Yes. I was delayed in Baltimore on account of meeting a friend there,
so there wasn't any one at the station to meet me. I'm a good walker,
and----"
"And the fairies led you down the wood-road in time to save disobedient
me."
"Disobedient?"
She nodded. "Aunty Landis told me that I mustn't go in wading. She said
it was not becoming--that it was very improper."
"How unreasonable!"
"That's what I thought. But I wish now I'd obeyed her."
"But that would have meant that the poor knight would have ridden by
without an excuse for knowing you."
"Alas! Well, your task is nearly done. We must be near White Cottage."
"Don't say that."
She glanced about, and then gave a wriggle so violent that she almost
slipped from his arms.
"Put me down!"
"What's the matter?"
"We're nearer than I thought. There's the big oak. The lane comes right
up to the back door. The house is on the main road, you know. Put me
down!"
"But why shouldn't I carry you into the house?"
"Because--oh, because Aunty Landis would be terribly frightened! She'd
think something dreadful had happened to me. Please put me down. I can
limp along, if you'll let me use your arm."
He allowed her to slip slowly to the ground. "There you are, then; but
be careful."
A sigh of relief escaped her as she tried her weight gingerly on the
injured foot.
"It's ever so much better. I won't even have to hop." Her face was
upturned earnestly. "Thank you very much, Mr. Puddin' Tame. You've been
very kind."
"You're very welcome," he returned, and, seized by a sudden paternal
tenderness, he stooped and kissed the red-lipped mouth.
She stepped back with a sharp "Oh!" mingled of anger and the pain of her
twisted ankle. "Oh! Why did you do that? We were having such fun,
and--and now you've spoiled the whole afternoon. What a--a perfectly
silly thing to do!"
He quailed before the bayonets flashing in the blue eyes.
"I was carried away," he said humbly.
"I hate you!"
"No, no. Don't--please don't do that. Of course I was
wrong--unpardonably wrong, I suppose--but you looked so young,
and--well, so adorable, that I---- Oh, please don't hate me!"
His gloom was so profound that, in spite of herself, she felt her wrath
begin to melt.
"If you're sure you're very sorry----"
"I'm in the dust," he evaded.
"Then--all right." She smiled a little, but with caution--he should not
be allowed to think himself too easily restored to favor. "I frightened
you, didn't I? And you ought to have been frightened. But to show you I
trust you now, I'll use your arm as a crutch. Come on. Oh, _what_ a
delicious sight for poor Aunty Landis!"
Truly enough, the spectacle brought to her feet a motherly-looking woman
who had been knitting on the porch of White Cottage.
"Good gracious, child! What's the matter?" She fluttered down the steps
to meet the bedraggled adventurers. "Have you hurt yourself, dearie? Oh,
dear, dear! What is it? Have you broken your leg?"
"I'm all right, Aunty. Don't worry. My ankle _might_ be turned a little,
that's all. This gentleman has been very kind to me, and helped me
home."
The woman made Fessenden a spasmodic bow. "I'm sure we're much obliged
to you, sir. Is it your ankle, dearie? I told you not to go in wading.
The idea of such a thing, and you a young lady!"
"Now, Aunty, please don't scold me--not until my foot's fixed, at any
rate."
Although the girl's lips quivered warningly, Fessenden could have sworn
her eyes laughed slyly. But the older woman's vexation was effectually
dissolved by the other's pitiful tone.
"There, there! You poor silly baby! Come right in, and I'll put your
foot in hot water and mustard. That'll take the soreness out." She
passed her arm lovingly about the girl's slender shoulders and was
leading her away without more ado. The girl hung back.
"Aunty, I haven't thanked him--half."
"I'm sure the gentleman's been very good," said Mrs. Landis, "but he
knows your foot ought to be soaked in hot water just as soon as can be.
There won't be any too much time to do it before supper, any way."
"By all means," agreed Fessenden. "I'm very glad if I've been of
service." Mischief awoke in his glance. "I've had ample reward for
anything I've been able to do."
The blood crept into the girl's cheeks, but she was not afraid to meet
his eyes.
"Good-by," he said with evident reluctance. "I hope your ankle will be
well very soon." The laughing imps in her eyes suddenly emboldened him.
"May I come to-morrow evening to see how you're getting on?"
"Of course--if you like. We're through supper by half-past seven,
and----"
"Supper?" he returned, and paused so pointedly that the girl laughed
outright.
[Illustration: HE WAVED HIS HAT FROM THE GATE]
"O-oh! Would you care to come to supper with us, really?"
"Don't ask me unless you're in earnest."
"Will you come, then, at half-past six?"
"I'll come. Thank you--immensely. Good-night. Good-night, Mrs. Landis."
"Good-night, good-night, Mr. Puddin' Tame," called the girl as she
hobbled up the steps, supported on the older woman's arm.
He waved his hat from the gate, and the girl blew him a smiling kiss--to
the very evident embarrassment of Aunty Landis.