"There is no right man--yet," she returned, laughing and dimpling till I
almost wished there was not a dimpling stubborn girl in all the world.
"Betty, you're a bloodthirsty little wretch," I said, shaking my head
sorrowfully. "You scald one man and help Hamilton to kill two."
"Oh, they will not die," she answered seriously. "I was haunted by the
fear that they might, so I got up in the middle of the night, took father
and one of the boys with a link, and went to the hospital, where I
learned that they will recover."
"Show me to Hamilton's room, Betty, and bring two lobsters there instead
of one. He and I will have dinner together," I said, turning to go with
her.
"He doesn't seem to want to eat, though I doubt if his lack of appetite
is owing wholly to his wounds," she replied, as we were leaving the
tap-room.
"How long has he been here?" I asked.
"Since yesterday noon," she answered. "He came just in time to find
trouble. An hour ago I took a bowl of broth to him and a plate of
sparrow-grass, but he said dolefully that the food would stick in his
throat. I told him he was not wounded in the throat. Then he said it was
in his heart, and that such a wound kills the appetite. I believe he's in
love, Baron Ned," she concluded, leaning toward me and whispering
earnestly.
"With you, Betty?" I asked.
"No, no, with some one else."
"Would it make you unhappy?" I asked.
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