“And well she might be,” exclaimed Mrs. Yorke, giving him a bare glance and then turning back to her daughter.  “Mrs. Nailor was the first who heard your horse had come home.  She ran and told me.  And, oh, I was so frightened!  She was sure you were killed.”

“You might be sure she would be the first to hear and tell you,” said the girl.  “Why, mamma, one always sprains one’s knee when one’s horse falls.  That is part of the programme.  This—­gentleman happened to come along, and helped me down to the road, and we were just discussing whether I should go on farther when you came up.  Mother, this is Mr. Keith.”

Keith bowed.  He was for some reason pleased that she did not say anything of the way in which he had brought her down the Ridge.

Mrs. Yorke turned and thanked him with graciousness, possibly with a little condescension.  He was conscious that she gave him a sweeping glance, and was sorry his shoes were so old.  But Mrs. Yorke took no further notice of him.

“Oh, what will your father say!  You know he wanted us to go to California; but you would come South.  After Mr. Wickersham told you of his place, nothing else would satisfy you.”

“Oh, papa!  You know I can settle him,” said the girl.

Mrs. Yorke began to lament the wretchedness of a region where there was no doctor of reputation.

“There is a very fine surgeon in the village.  Dr. Balsam is one of the best surgeons anywhere,” said Keith.

“Oh, I know that old man.  No doubt, he is good enough for little common ailments,” said Mrs. Yorke, “but in a case like this!  What does he know about surgery?” She turned back to her daughter.  “I shall telegraph your father to send Dr. Pilbury down at once.”

Keith flushed at her manner.

“A good many people have to trust their lives to him,” he said coldly.  “And he has had about as much surgical practice as most men.  He was in the army.”

The girl began again to belittle her injury.

It was nothing, absolutely nothing, she declared.

“And besides,” she said, “I know the Doctor.  I met him the other day.  He is a dear old man.”  She ended by addressing Keith.

“One of the best,” said Keith, warmly.

“Well, we must get you into the vehicle and take you home immediately,” said her mother.  “Can you help put my daughter into the carriage?” Mrs. Yorke looked at the driver, a stolid colored man, who was surly over having had to drive his horses so hard.

Before the man could answer, Gordon stepped forward, and, stooping, lifted the girl, and quietly put her up into the vehicle.  She simply smiled and said, “Thank you,” quite as if she were accustomed to being lifted into carriages by strange young men whom she had just met on the roadside.

Mrs. Yorke’s eyes opened wide.

“How strong you must be!” she exclaimed, with a woman’s admiration for physical strength.