You shall have help directly. Papa
will know what to do, so lie still where you are."
The lad obeyed, there plainly being nothing else to be done. In a second
Doctor Wainwright, at Grace's flag of distress, a white handkerchief
waving from the top of her parasol, came toward her at the mare's
fastest pace.
"Hello!" he said. "Here's Archie Vanderhoven in a pickle."
"As usual, doctor," said Archie, faintly. "I've broken mother's last
pitcher."
"And your leg, I see," observed the doctor, with professional
directness. "Well, my boy, you must be taken home. Grace, drive home for
me, and tell the boys to bring a cot here as soon as possible. Meanwhile
I'll set Archie's leg. It's only a simple fracture." And the doctor from
his black bag, brought out bandages and instruments. No army surgeon on
the field of battle was quicker and gentler than Doctor Wainwright,
whose skill was renowned all over our country-side.
"What is there about the Vanderhovens?" inquired Grace that night as
they sat by the blaze of hickory logs in the cheery parlor of
Wishing-Brae.
"The Vanderhovens are a decayed family," her father answered. "They were
once very well off and lived in state, and from far and near gay parties
were drawn at Easter and Christmas to dance under their roof. Now they
are run out. This boy and his mother are the last of the line. Archie's
father was drowned in the ford when we had the freshet last spring.
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