in the morning. I think, Mrs. White, you might
make him comfortable to-night on this floor. It will be safer."

Ned was very pale. Dorothy could not bear to see his white face with the
deep dark rings under his eyes. Tom did what he could, and then was ready
to leave.

He took Dorothy's arm and led her out into the hall.

"See here, little girl," he began, "you are not to blame yourself in any
way for this. If any one was at fault it was I. I saw how he--felt, and
should not have tantalized him."

"It was simply an accident," argued Dorothy feebly.

"Certainly," answered Tom; "but Ned was out of sorts. He seemed to have a
personal grudge against me."

"Oh, you must have imagined that," answered Dorothy. "Ned is sensitive,
but not--unreasonable."

Tom pressed her hand warmly in parting. The action brought warm color to
her cheeks. He was trying to cheer her, of course, but Ned would not have
liked it.

When the doctor had left, Mrs. White told the major that her son's hip was
hurt.

"And that does take so long to mend," she lamented. "The hip is such a
network of ligaments."

Acting on the doctor's advice, the injured young man was made comfortable
in the library for the night. Nat wanted to stay with him--there were
plenty of divans and couches that might be used in the emergency--but Mrs.
White insisted upon caring for the boy herself. She noticed he was
becoming feverish, and so hurried the others off to bed that the house
might be quiet.

Dorothy took Ned's warm hand in hers and touched his forehead with her
lips. But she knew better than to utter one word--he must be quiet, very
quiet.

How strangely depressing was the house now with the gloom of sickness
upon it! The awful uncertainty of an accident, what the result might be,
how serious or trifling--every possibility seemed weighted with terrible
consequences.

Dorothy fell upon her knees beside her bed. Her heart was very full,
everything seemed dark and gloomy now. All the difficulties of yesterday
were engulfed in that one sorrow--Ned's accident. Dorothy seemed unable to
pray, and in her sadness came the thought of her own unwilling part in the
little tragedy.

"If only I had told Tom--asked him not to! But how could I do that?" she
argued against argument. "What would he think of Ned? Of me?"

A step in the hall roused her from her reverie. There was a slight tap on
the door, then Tavia entered. Although it was late she was still entirely