At sight of her father Ann Eliza began to cry, while Tom said: 

’She has sprained her ankle and I had to bring her home.  She cannot step.’

’Jerusalem hoe-cakes!  Spraint her ankle!  Can’t step!  You bring her home!  Heavens and earth!  Here, May Jane, come lively!  Here’s a nice how-dy-do!  Ann Liza’s broke her laig, and Tom Tracy’s brung her home!’

As Peterkin talked, he was taking his daughter in his arms and bringing her into the hall, hitting her lame foot against the door, and eliciting from her a cry of pain.

’Oh, father; Oh-h!—­it does hurt so.  Put me somewhere quick, and take off my boot.  I believe I am going to die!’

She was dripping wet, and little puddles of water trailed along the carpet as Peterkin carried her into the sitting room, where he was about to lay her down upon the delicate satin couch, when his wife’s housewifely instincts were roused, and she exclaimed: 

’No, father.  No, not there, when she’s so wet, and water spots that satin so dreadfully.’

‘What in thunder shall I do with her?  Hold her all night?’ Peterkin demanded, while Tom deliberately picked up the costly Turkey hearth rug, and throwing it across the couch, said: 

‘Put her on that.’  So Peterkin deposited her upon the rug, hitting her foot again, and sending her off in a dead faint.

‘Oh, she’s dead! she’s dead!  What shall we do?’ Mrs. Peterkin cried, wringing her hands, and walking about excitedly.

‘Do?’ Peterkin yelled.  ‘Hold your yawp, and stop floppin’ round like a hen with her head cut off!  She ain’t dead.  She’s fainted.  Bring some camfire, or alcohol, or hartshorn, or Pond’s Extract, or something for her to smell.’

‘Yes, yes; but where are they?’ Mrs. Peterkin moaned, still flopping around, as her husband had expressed it, while Tom rang the bell and summoned the maid, to whom he gave directions.

‘Bring some camphor or hartshorn,’ he said.  ’Miss Peterkin has fainted, and get off the boot as soon as possible.  Don’t you see how her foot is swelling?’

This to Peterkin, who made a dive at the boot, which resisted all his efforts, even after it was unbuttoned.  The leather, which was soaked through, had shrunk so that it was impossible to remove the boot without cutting it away, and this they commenced to do.

Ann Eliza had recovered her consciousness by this time, and although the pain was terrible she bore it heroically, as piece after piece of the boot was removed, together with the silk stocking which left her poor little swollen foot exposed and bare.

‘By Jove, she’s plucky!’ Tom thought, as he watched the operation and saw the great drops of sweat on Ann Eliza’s forehead and her efforts to quiet her mother, pretending that it did not hurt so very much.  ’Yes, she’s plucky,’ and for the first time in his life Tom was conscious of a feeling of something like respect for Peterkin’s red-haired daughter.  ’She has a small foot, too; the smallest I ever saw on a woman.  I do believe she wears twos,’ he thought, while something about the little white foot made him think of poor Jack’s dead feet, laid under the grass years ago.