"Dead--no. I tell you his head's too thick. Well, you've done it, young lady. There, I'll stop with him while you run up and tell Tom Loddon and Jack Rennie to bring the little stable door off the hinges. We must get him up to the farm." "Can't--can't I carry him, uncle?" said Sage, naively. "Pish! what nonsense, girl. I don't think I could carry him myself. Let's try." He placed his arms round Cyril's chest, and raised him into a sitting posture, the act rousing Cyril from his swoon. "That's better. How do you feel now?" cried the Churchwarden. "He'll be able to walk, and it will do him good. Come, Master Cyril, how do you feel?" "Sick--faint," he replied. "Cowardly assault on a fellow." He clung to the Churchwarden, for his head swam, but the sickness passed off in a few minutes, and then, leaning heavily upon the Churchwarden's strong arm, the injured man walked slowly across the field to where Mrs Portlock was standing at the open door, Sage feeling sick and faint herself, as she followed close behind, bearing both Cyril's and Luke Ross's hats, that of the latter having been picked up by her without any knowledge of what she had done. "What is it? What is the matter?" cried Mrs Portlock. "Help with thy hands, wife, and let thy tongue rest," said the Churchwarden, sharply; and in answer to the rebuke, Mrs Portlock did help by drawing forward the great couch near the fire, and sending Sage for some pillows, after which the latter supported Cyril, while Mrs Portlock, with a good deal of notable quickness, bathed the cut at the back of the injured man's head, afterwards cutting away a little of the hair, and strapping it up with diachylon in quite a business-like way. "Mother's good as a doctor over a job like this," said the Churchwarden, cheerily. "So am I. Here's your physic, squire. Sip that down." The medicine was a good glass of brandy and water, of which Cyril partook heartily; and then, in obedience to the tender request of Sage, he lay down on the pillows, and half closed his eyes. "Now, then," said the Churchwarden, bluffly, "what do you say? Shall I send over and tell them at the rectory you've had a tumble and cracked your crown, or will you have a cup of tea with us and then walk up? You don't want a doctor." Cyril opened his eyes languidly, and gazed at the Churchwarden. Then he let them rest on Mrs Portlock with a pitiful gaze, finally turning them upon Sage, who was kneeling by him holding one hand. Cyril Mallow's thoughts were that he should prefer to stay where he was, tended by the women, and he said, faintly-- "Doctor--please." "Nonsense, man," cried Portlock, bluffly. "Why, wheres your heart? Pluck up a bit. You don't want a doctor for a bit of a crack like that." "Oh, uncle, you are cruel!" cried Sage. "I am sure he is very much hurt." Her hand received a tender squeeze in response to this, and, in spite of her present misery, Sage felt her heart begin to glow.