Go slowly. Don't lose your head."
"It is not my head I fear to lose; it is my footing," she answered,
sitting on the window-sill, one foot hanging outside.
"But you must come, Betty," I said encouragingly. "Now say a little
prayer to the Virgin, and you'll be all right."
I saw her bow her head and cross herself, and the prayer giving her
strength, she climbed to the lower window coping and began her descent
on the vine. When halfway down she fell, and though I caught her, partly
breaking her fall, I knew that she was hurt. I helped her to her feet,
and she said breathlessly:--
"I'm all right. I'm not hurt."
But when we started toward the coach, she clung to me, limping, and
began to cry from pain. When I saw that she was hurt, I caught her up
in my arms and carried her to the coach, followed by the driver, bearing
the reins and Betty's hood, cloak, gloves, and boots. Frances was already
inside the coach, and George was about to follow her, when I came up with
poor helpless Betty, and somewhat angrily ordered him to stand aside
while I made her comfortable. Frances began to soothe Betty, whose tears
flowed afresh under the sympathy. By the time George and I were in the
coach, the drivers were on the box, but before we started one of them
lifted the curtain and said:--
"I hear them moving in the house."
"Make the more haste," I answered.
"Shan't we stay for a fight, sir?" asked the driver, evidently
disappointed.
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