Frank came around from behind the bar, in obedience to the word; but his father gave a partial countermand, and he stood still.  Upon observing which, his mother repeated the order, even more emphatically.

“Why don’t you jump, you young rascal!” exclaimed Harvey Green.  “The child may be dead before the doctor can get here.”

Frank hesitated no longer, but disappeared instantly through the door.

“Poor, poor child!” almost sobbed Mrs. Slade, as she lifted the insensible form from my arms.  “How did it happen?  Who struck her?”

“Who?  Curse him!  Who but Simon Slade?” answered Joe Morgan, through his clenched teeth.

The look of anguish, mingled with bitter reproach, instantly thrown upon the landlord by his wife, can hardly be forgotten by any who saw it that night.

“Oh, Simon!  Simon!  And has it come to this already?” What a world of bitter memories, and sad forebodings of evil, did that little sentence express.  “To this already”—­Ah!  In the downward way, how rapidly the steps do tread—­how fast the progress!

“Bring me a basin of water, and a towel, quickly!” she now exclaimed.

The water was brought, and in a little while the face of the child lay pure and as white as snow against her bosom.  The wound from which the blood had flowed so freely was found on the upper part of the forehead, a little to the side, and extending several inches back, along the top of the head.  As soon as the blood stains were wiped away, and the effusion partially stopped, Mrs. Slade carried the still insensible body into the next room, whither the distressed, and now completely sobered father, accompanied her.  I went with them, but Slade remained behind.

The arrival of the doctor was soon followed by the restoration of life to the inanimate body.  He happened to be at home, and came instantly.  He had just taken the last stitch in the wound, which required to be drawn together, and was applying strips of adhesive plaster, when the hurried entrance of some one caused me to look up.  What an apparition met my eyes!  A woman stood in the door, with a face in which maternal anxiety and terror blended fearfully.  Her countenance was like ashes—­her eyes straining wildly—­her lips apart, while the panting breath almost hissed through them.

“Joe!  Joe!  What is it?  Where is Mary?  Is she dead?” were her eager inquiries.

“No, Fanny,” answered Joe Morgan, starting up from where he was actually kneeling by the side of the reviving little one, and going quickly to his wife.  “She’s better now.  It’s a bad hurt, but the doctor says it’s nothing dangerous.  Poor, dear child!”