A moment, and Miss Rutherford
came hastening down, with alarmed aspect, begging to be told what
was the matter. But the summoner had turned and fled at the first
sight of the lady's garments. Miss Rutherford darted into the
schoolroom, and at once there was quietness, save for half-choked
sobs here and there, and a more ominous kind of moaning from the
crowded corner.
"Gracious goodness, children, what is it? Who's that lying on the
floor? Harriet Smales! What _ever_ has happened?"
The cluster of children had fallen aside, exposing a strange
picture. On the ground lay a girl of twelve, her face deadly pale,
save in the places where it was dabbled with fresh blood, which
still streamed from a gash on the right side of her forehead. Her
eyes were half opened; she was just recovering consciousness; a moan
came from her at intervals. She had for support the lap and arms of
a little girl, perhaps two years younger than herself. Heedless of
the flowing blood, this child was pressing her pale cheek against
that of the wounded one, whose name she kept murmuring in pitiful
accents, mixed with endearing epithets. So unconscious was she of
all around, that the falling back of the other children did not
cause her to raise her eyes; neither was she aware of Miss
Rutherford's first exclamations, nor yet of the question which was
next addressed to her by the horrified schoolmistress.
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