"Compound fracture of the right arm, Miss,"
she whispered, "and badly bruised about the head, as they all
were. Poor Mr. Breen was the worst."
Ruth looked at her in astonishment. That was why he had not lifted
his hat, she thought to herself, as she tiptoed into the sick room
and sank to her knees beside her father's bed.
The injured man opened his eyes, and his free hand moved slowly
till it rested on his daughter's head.
"I got an awful crack, Ruth, but I am all right now. Too bad to
bring you home. Who came with you?"
"Aunt Felicia and Uncle Peter," she whispered as she stroked his
uninjured hand.
"Mighty good of them--just like old Peter. Send the old boy up--I
want to see him."
Ruth made no answer; her heart was too full. That her father was
alive was enough.
"I'm not pretty to look at, am I, child, but I'll pull out; I have
been hurt before--had a leg broken once in the Virginia mountains
when you were a baby. The smoke was the worst; I swallowed a lot
of it; and I am sore now all over my chest.
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