These last two remarks Chip heard. He opened his eyes and looked straight up into the gray ones above--a long, questioning, rebellious look. He tried then to rise, to free himself from the bitter ecstasy of those soft, enfolding arms. Only a broken collar bone! Good thing it was no worse! Ugh! A spasm of pain contracted his features and drew beads of moisture to his forehead. The spurned arms once more felt the dead weight of him. “What is it?” The Little Doctor's voice called to him from afar. Must he answer? He wanted to drift on and on--“Can you tell me where the pain is?” Pain? Oh, yes, there had been pain--but he wanted to drift. He opened his eyes again reluctantly; again the pain clutched him. “It's--my--foot.” For the first time the eyes of the Little Doctor left his face and traveled downward to the spurred boots. One was twisted in a horrible unnatural position that told the agonizing truth--a badly dislocated ankle. They returned quickly to the face, and swam full of blinding tears--such as a doctor should not succumb to. He was not drifting into oblivion now; his teeth were not digging into his lower lip for nothing, she knew. “Weary,” she said, forgetting to call him properly by name, “ride to the house and get my medicine case--the little black one. The Countess knows--and have Slim bring something to carry him home on. And--RIDE!” Weary was gone before she had finished, and he certainly “rode.” “You'll have another crippled cow-puncher on yer hands, first thing yuh know,” grumbled the Old Man, anxiously, as he watched Weary race recklessly down the hill. The Little Doctor did not answer. She scarcely heard him. She was stroking the hair back from Chip's forehead softly, unconsciously, wondering why she had never before noticed the wave in it--but then, she had scarcely seen him with his hat off. How silky and soft it felt! And she had called him all sorts of mean names, and had wanted Whizzer to--she shuddered and turned sick at the memory of the thud when they struck the hard road together. “Dell!” exclaimed the Old Man, “you're white's a rag. Doggone it, don't throw up yer hands at yer first case--brace up!” Chip looked up at her curiously, forgetting the pain long enough to wonder at her whiteness. Did she have a heart, then, or was it a feminine trait to turn pale in every emergency? She had not turned so very white when those kids--he felt inclined to laugh, only for that cussed foot. Instead he relaxed his vigilance and a groan slipped out before he knew. “Just a minute more and I'll ease the pain for you,” murmured the girl, compassionately. “All right--so long as you--don't--use--the stomach pump,” he retorted, with a miserable makeshift of a laugh. “What's that?” asked the Old Man, but no one explained. The Little Doctor was struggling with the lump in her throat that he should try to joke about it.