“I feel bruised all over, and my arm is broken, I’m afraid.  Lita tried not to hurt me.  She slipped, and we went down.  I came here into the shade, and the pain made me faint, I suppose.  Call somebody, and get me home.”

Then, she shut her eyes, and looked so white that Ben hurried away and burst upon old Mrs. Paine, placidly knitting at the end door, so suddenly that, as she afterward said, “it sca’t her like a clap o’ thunder.”

“Aint a man nowheres around.  All down in the big medder gettin’ in hay,” was her reply to Ben’s breathless demand for “everybody to come and see to Miss Celia.”

He turned to mount, for he had flung himself off before Lita stopped, but the old lady caught his jacket and asked half a dozen questions in a breath.

“Who’s your folks?  What’s broke?  How’d she fall?  Where is she?  Why didn’t she come right here?  Is it a sunstroke?”

As fast as words could tumble out of his mouth Ben answered, and then tried to free himself, but the old lady held on while she gave her directions, expressed her sympathy, and offered her hospitality with incoherent warmth.

“Sakes alive! poor dear!  Fetch her right in.  Liddy, get out the camphire, and Melissy, you haul down a bed to lay her on.  Falls is dretful uncert’in things; shouldn’t wonder if her back was broke.  Father’s down yender, and he and Bijah will see to her.  You go call ’em, and I’ll blow the horn to start ’em up.  Tell her we’ll be pleased to see her, and it wont make a mite of trouble.”

Ben heard no more, for as Mrs. Paine turned to take down the tin horn he was up and away.

Several long and dismal toots sent Lita galloping through the grassy path as the sound of the trumpet excites a war-horse, and “father and Bijah,” alarmed by the signal at that hour, leaned on their rakes to survey with wonder the distracted-looking little horseman approaching like a whirlwind.

“Guess likely grandpa’s had ’nother stroke.  Told ’em to send over soon’s ever it come,” said the farmer calmly.

“Shouldn’t wonder ef suthing was afire some’r’s,” conjectured the hired man, surveying the horizon for a cloud of smoke.

Instead of advancing to meet the messenger, both stood like statues in blue overalls and red flannel shirts, till the boy arrived and told his tale.

“Sho, that’s bad,” said the farmer, anxiously.

“That brook always was the darndest place,” added Bijah, then both men bestirred themselves helpfully, the former hurrying to Miss Celia while the latter brought up the cart and made a bed of hay to lay her on.

“Now then, boy, you go for the doctor.  My women folks will see to the lady, and she’d better keep quiet up yender till we see what the matter is,” said the farmer, when the pale girl was lifted in as carefully as four strong arms could do it.  “Hold on,” he added, as Ben made one leap to Lita’s back.  “You’ll have to go to Berryville.  Dr. Mills is a master hand for broken bones and old Dr. Babcock aint.  ’Tisn’t but about three mile from here to his house, and you’ll fetch him ’fore there’s any harm done waitin’.”