are hurt," she says, hastily, going nearer to him. "Where?--how?"

There is deep, unrestrained anxiety in her tone.

"My arm," confesses Fabian, who is, indeed, suffering greatly, laying
his left hand upon his right arm, high up above the elbow.

"Is it a sprain or a bruise?"

"A little of both, perhaps. I came up-stairs just now to ring for
Parkins to help me off with my coat, and do something for me."

"Parkins!" says Portia, with fine contempt; "of what use is a man in a
case like this. Why not ask Dulce--"

"Oh! it is really nothing; and you saw how frightened she was already. I
had pity on her nerves."

"Then let me be Parkins for a few minutes," says Portia, with a little
smile. "I used to be of great use to George" (her brother, Colonel
Vibart) "occasionally when he came to grief at football, or in the
hunting field. Let me see if my hand has lost its cunning."

"You won't like it," says Blount, hesitating; "it will look nasty, you
know, and there will be blood, I think, and perhaps it will be better
for me to--"

"This is my sitting-room," interrupts Portia, calmly, throwing open a
door on the opposite side of the corridor. "Come in here, and let me see
what has happened to you."

Fabian follows her obediently. It all seems to him something like a
dream, that this girl, usually so listless, should now brighten into
life, and grow energetic and anxious for his sake.

With gentle fingers she helps him to take off his coat, and, in a
business-like, very matter-of-fact fashion, unfastens the gold link at
his wrist, and, though paling a little as she sees the blood upon his
sleeve, resolutely rolls it up and lays bare the injured arm.

It is looking dark and swollen, and the skin has been knocked off it in
several places. The flesh has been a good deal bruised, and altogether
the wound is an ugly one without being in any way serious. In spite of
her efforts to the contrary, she blanches perceptibly, and shudders, and
lets her lids droop rather heavily over her eyes.

"You are unfit for this sort of work," says Fabian, angry with himself,
as he marks her agitation. "It was unpardonable of me even to permit you
to attempt it." He moves back from her, and tries his shirt sleeve once
more over his injured arm.

"Ah! do not touch it," says Portia, hastily; "the sleeve will only rub
against it and make it worse."

Involuntarily she lays her hand on his to prevent his covering the
wound, and looks at him