Poor Rose, excited and unstrung by her morning's
adventures, dropped the reins in disgust, and then with one hand
clutching her skirt, and the other her hair, she resigned herself to a
fit of uncontrollable laughter. The next moment the wilful horse made
a wild plunge forward, and the wilful girl was flung with terrible
force against a heap of stones on the roadside. Colourless, motionless,
breathless, she lay at the feet of Allan Dunlop, whose heart turned
sick as he discerned among the yellow locks outspread on the gray
stones a slender stream of blood.
For a moment the young man stood horror-struck. Fortunately he was not
far from home, and there he proceeded at once to take the almost
lifeless girl. As he was about to lift her gently in his arms, a low
moan escaped her lips, the significance of which he was not slow to
catch. Unable to speak, almost unable to move, she made a slight
writhing motion of the limbs, accompanied by a convulsive twitch at
the torn gown. Allan Dunlop was not dull-witted enough to suppose that
her ankle was sprained. His sensibilities and sympathies were
exquisitely quick and fine.
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