"My dear child," he said, stooping down over her (there was always
something fatherly in his manner toward those who were suffering),
"what is it that has frightened you so? It is surely not I you are
afraid of?"
The girl moved her head slightly, and her lips parted as with an
effort to speak; but no sound came.
Fern seized her hand, and put his forefinger on her pulse.
"By Jove, child," he exclaimed, "how you have been running!"
There was to him something very pathetic in this silent resignation of
terror. All the tenderness of his nature was stirred; for, like many
another undemonstrative person, he hid beneath a horny epidermis of
apathy some deep-hued, warm-blooded qualities.
"There now," he continued, soothingly; "you will feel better in a
moment. Remember there is nothing to be afraid of. There is nobody
here who will do you any harm."
The young girl braced herself up on her elbow, and threw an anxious
glance down the path.
"It surely was the devil," she whispered, turning with a look of shy
appeal toward her protector.
"The devil? Who was the devil?"
"He was all black, and he grinned at me so horribly;" and she trembled
anew at the very thought.
"Don't be a little goose," retorted he, laughing.
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