“You’ll be all straight directly,” he said, “and I’m only thankful you’re not much hurt.  But I am in a mess.  Whew!  What the old gentleman will say if Duke don’t come out of it comfortable, is something I’d rather not look ahead to.  I must go on and see.  I’ll be back again, and if there’s anything—­anything more,” he added with a droll twinkle, “that I can do for you, I shall be happy, and will try to do it a little better.”

The feminine Ingrahams were all around Sylvie by this time:  Mrs. Ingraham, and Ray, and Dot.  They bemoaned and exclaimed, and were “thankful she’d come off as she had;” and “she’d better step right in and come up-stairs.”  The village boys were crowding round,—­all those who had not been in time to run after the “smash,”—­and Sylvie gladly withdrew to the offered shelter.  Rod Sherrett gave his hair a toss or two with his hands, struck the dust off his wide-awake, put it on, and walked off down the hill, through the staring and admiring crowd.

CHAPTER II.

UP-STAIRS.

The two Ingraham girls had been sitting in their own room over the shop when the accident occurred, and it was there they now took Sylvie Argenter, to have her dress tacked together again, and to wash her face and hands and settle her hair and hat.  Mrs. Ingraham came bustling after with “arnicky” for the bruised arm.  They were all very delighted and important, having the great Mr. Argenter’s daughter quite to themselves in the intimacy of “up-stairs,” to wait upon and take care of.  Mrs. Ingraham fussed and “my-deared” a good deal; her daughters took it with more outward calmness.  Although baker’s daughters, they belonged to the present youthful generation, born to best education at the public schools, sewing-machines, and universal double-skirted full-fashions; and had read novels of society out of the Roxeter town library.

There was a good deal of time after the bathing and mending and re-arranging were all done.  The axle of the phaeton had been split, and must be temporarily patched up and banded.  There was nothing for Sylvie to do but to sit quietly there in the old-fashioned, dimity-covered easy-chair which they gave her by the front window, and wait.  Meanwhile, she observed and wondered much.

She had never got out of the Argenter and Highford atmosphere before.  She didn’t know—­as we don’t about the moon—­whether there might be atmosphere for the lesser and subsidiary world.  But here she found herself in the bedroom of two girls who lived over a bake-shop, and, really, it seemed they actually did live, much after the fashion of other people.  There were towels on the stand, a worked pincushion on the toilet, white shades and red tassels to the windows, this comfortable easy-chair beside one and a low splint rocker in the other,—­with queer, antique-looking soft footstools of dark cloth, tamboured in bright colors before each,—­white quilted covers on table and bureau, and positively, a striped, knitted foot-spread in scarlet and white yarn, folded across the lower end of the bed.