Between them they pulled Mittie out, a wet, frightened, miserable
object, her breath in helpless gasps and sobs, and one cheek bleeding
freely from striking the rowlock.
"Oh, Mittie! why did you do it?" Mary asked in distress--a rather
inopportune question in the circumstances. "We must get her home at
once, Fred, and put her to bed."
They had almost to carry her up the bank, for all the starch and
confidence were gone out of her; and she was supremely ashamed, besides
being overwhelmed with the fright and the shock.
On reaching the house Fred went off to change his own soaking garments,
and Mittie was promptly put to bed, with a hot bottle at her feet and a
hot drink to counteract the effects of the chill.
She submitted with unwonted meekness; but her one cry was for her
sister.
"I want Joan! Oh, do fetch Joan!" she entreated. "My face hurts so
awfully; and I feel so bad all over. I know I'm going to die! Oh, please
send for Joan!"
"I don't think there is the smallest probability of that, my dear," Mrs.
Ferris said, with rather dry composure, as she sat by the bed. "If Fred
had not been at hand you would have been in danger, certainly. But, as
things are, it is simply a matter of keeping you warm for a few hours.
Your face will be painful, I am afraid, for some days; but happily it is
only a bad bruise."
"I thought I could manage the jump so nicely," sighed Mittie.
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