Now Mary St. John was both brave and kind; and, therefore, though not insensible to the fact that she too must be in danger where violence had been used to a boy, she set about assisting him at once. His face was deathlike, but she did not think he was dead. She drew him out into the passage, for the room was close, and did all she could to recover him; but for some time he did not even breathe. At last his lips moved, and he murmured, 'Sandy, Sandy, ye've broken my bonnie leddy.' Then he opened his eyes, and seeing a face to dream about bending in kind consternation over him, closed them again with a smile and a sigh, as if to prolong his dream. The blood now came fast into his forsaken cheeks, and began to flow again from the wound in his head. The lady bound it up with her handkerchief. After a little he rose, though with difficulty, and stared wildly about him, saying, with imperfect articulation, 'Father! father!' Then he looked at Miss St. John with a kind of dazed inquiry in his eyes, tried several times to speak, and could not. 'Can you walk at all?' asked Miss St. John, supporting him, for she was anxious to leave the place. 'Yes, mem, weel eneuch,' he answered. 'Come along, then. I will help you home.' 'Na, na,' he said, as if he had just recalled something. 'Dinna min' me. Rin hame, mem, or he'll see ye!' 'Who will see me?' Robert stared more wildly, put his hand to his head, and made no reply. She half led, half supported him down the stair, as far as the first landing, when he cried out in a tone of anguish, 'My bonny leddy!' 'What is it?' asked Miss St. John, thinking he meant her. 'My fiddle! my fiddle! She 'll be a' in bits,' he answered, and turned to go up again. 'Sit down here,' said Miss St. John, 'and I'll fetch it.' Though not without some tremor, she darted back to the room. Then she turned faint for the first time, but determinedly supporting herself, she looked about, saw a brown-paper parcel on a shelf, took it, and hurried out with a shudder. Robert stood leaning against the wall. He stretched out his hands eagerly. 'Gie me her. Gie me her.' 'You had better let me carry it. You are not able.' 'Na, na, mem. Ye dinna ken hoo easy she is to hurt.' 'Oh, yes, I do!' returned Miss St. John, smiling, and Robert could not withstand the smile. 'Weel, tak care o' her, as ye wad o' yer ain sel', mem,' he said, yielding. He was now much better, and before he had been two minutes in the open air, insisted that he was quite well. When they reached Captain Forsyth's garden he again held out his hands for his violin. 'No, no,' said his new friend. 'You wouldn't have Betty see you like that, would you?' 'No, mem; but I'll put in the fiddle at my ain window, and she sanna hae a chance o' seein' 't,' answered Robert, not understanding her; for though he felt a good deal of pain, he had no idea what a dreadful appearance he presented. 'Don't you know that you have a wound on your head?' asked Miss St. John.