Kneeling at her side, reassuring her and wiping the water from her
hands, was Ruth Nelson.
"God send you ain't hurt, ma'am!" cried Sandy, arriving breathless.
The girl looked up and shook her head in smiling protest, but the
Gothic lady promptly suffered a relapse.
"I am--I know I am! Just look at my dress covered with mud, and my
glove is split. Get my smelling-salts, Ruth!"
Ruth, upon whom the lady was leaning, turned to Sandy.
"Will you hand it to me? It is in the little bag there on the seat."
Sandy rushed to do her bidding. He was rather hazy as to the object of
his search; but when his fingers touched a round, soft ball he drew it
forth and hastily presented it to the lady's Roman nose.
She, with closed eyes, was taking deep whiffs when a laugh startled
her.
"Oh, Aunt Clara, it's your powder-puff!" cried Ruth, unable to
restrain her mirth.
Mrs. Nelson rose with as much dignity as her draggled condition would
permit. "You'd better get me home," she said solemnly. "I may be
internally injured." She turned to Sandy. "Boy, can't you get that
phaeton back on the road?"
Sandy, whose chagrin over his blunder had sent him to the background,
came promptly forward. Seizing the wheel, he made several ineffectual
efforts to lift it back to the road.
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