“Miss Vernor, why should you be so cruel to yourself?  Do go up to the doctor at once!”

“And take him away from Phebe?  I will not.  It won’t hurt any more now than it has done already.  I must ask you to let me have the brush, Mr. Halloway.  I am losing time.”

Halloway relinquished it without speaking, and went quietly out of the room, and Gerald unconcernedly resumed her work, scarcely pausing to wonder where he had gone or what he intended.  He returned just as she had finished, and lifting the lamp back to the table, called to her:  “Will you come here, please?”

“What in the world have you there?” she inquired, coming up to him in sheer curiosity.

“Soap.  I found the way to the kitchen, you see.  I had to bring the water in this tin thing.  I didn’t know where to look for a cup.”

“Pray what is it for?”

“For you.  Soap is good for burns.  Will you let me take your hand, please?”

Gerald put the wounded member behind her.  “Thank you.  I neither require nor desire assistance.”

“Pardon me, you do require it, and if you refuse to see the doctor—­”

“Is that any reason why I should resort to you—­and kitchen soap?”

“I grant it is a very homely remedy, Miss Vernor, but it is an excellent one and the only one I know.”

“I daresay.  It is one more than I know of.”

“You will not try it?”

“No.”

“Perhaps you are afraid of the pain attending the dressing?”

It was a masterly stroke.  Gerald gave him one look of intense scorn, almost of anger, and immediately reached out her hand.  “I am afraid of nothing—­not even of your lack of skill.”

Denham took her hand without further ceremony, and holding it firmly, pushed back the hanging lace from her arm and began rubbing the soap over the burns, without so much as a word of pity for the pain he knew he was giving her.  She winced involuntarily at the first touch, but set her teeth tightly lest she should cry out.  It hurt her cruelly.  “I was not aware before that the custody of souls extended to that of the temples they inhabit,” she said, when she could command herself sufficiently to assume a supreme indifference of tone.  “You believe in purely household remedies, I see.”

“I believe always in doing what I can with what means I have.  One moment more, please.  I am not quite through.”

Gerald held out her hand again.  “Perhaps you had better try sandstone on it this time, or a little burning oil.”

Halloway did not answer, but hastily tearing his handkerchief into strips, bound the arm as closely as he could.  “There,” he said, surveying the bandages critically, and inwardly well pleased with his success; “at least that will do till you can see the doctor.”

“Are you sure you are quite through now?” asked Gerald, in mock submission.  “You don’t think it necessary to put the arm in a splint, or to fasten weights to it, or to amputate the first joint of the thumb?”