"Then why don't you tell me where I'm hurt?" she sighed. For answer,
after a moment's hesitation, Barnabas reached out and taking her hand,
handkerchief and all, laid it very gently upon the cut, though to be
sure it was a very poor thing, as cuts go, after all.

"There," said he again, "though indeed it is very trifling."

"Indeed, sir, it pains atrociously!" she retorted, and to bear out
her words showed him her handkerchief, upon whose snow was a tiny
vivid stain.

"Then perhaps," ventured Barnabas, "perhaps I'd better bathe it with
this!" and he held up his dripping handkerchief.

"Nay, sir, I thank you," she answered, "keep it for your own
wounds--there is a cut upon your cheek."

"A cut!" repeated Barnabas--bethinking him of the gentleman's signet
ring.

"Yes, a cut, sir," she repeated, and stole a glance at him under her
long lashes; "pray did _your_ horse run away also?"

Barnabas was silent again, this time because he knew not how to
answer--therefore he began rubbing at his injured cheek while she
watched him--and after a while spoke.

"Sir," said she, "that is the wrong cheek."

"Then, indeed, this must be very trifling also," said Barnabas,