She looked at me for a moment, doubtless thinking my youthful appearance more befitting a schoolboy than a full blown medico.
I, seeing her hesitation, hastened to assure her—"I am Dr. Morton and live in Sittingborne."
Looking at me through tears that made her face look more bewitching she said, "Oh! are you Dr. Morton;—I thought he was much older than you seem to be?"
Then quickly with an assumption of dignity that made her look simply irresistible—"I beg your pardon! you must think me very rude, I, I—"
But the pain becoming too great, she dropped her dignified attitude and again commenced to cry. Without waiting any longer I took out my pocket-knife and kneeling down ripped up her little French kid boot and stocking.
The ankle was already very much swollen, so bidding her keep quiet for a few moments, I ran to a brook that was luckily near and dipping my handkerchief in hurried back.
I placed it round her foot (and a dear little foot it was) as carefully as I could, but though I hardly touched it she could not help now and then giving a cry of pain. Having finished I asked her in which direction she thought her friends were, but she did not know.
