"The water is all dripping from your nose and chin!—stoop lower over the basin." "And yet," said I, as well as I could on account of the trickling water, for she was bathing my face again, "and yet, you must be years younger than I." "But then, some women always feel older than a man—more especially if he is hurt." "Thank you," said I, "thank you; with the exception of a scratch, or so, I am very well!" But, as I moved, I caught my thumb clumsily against the table-edge, and winced with the sudden pain of it. "What is it—your hand?" "My thumb." "Let me see?" Obediently I stretched out my hand to her. "Is it broken?" "Dislocated, I think." "It is greatly swollen!" "Yes," said I, and taking firm hold of it with my left hand, I gave it a sudden pull which started the sweat upon my temples, but sent it back into joint. "Poor—" "Well?" said I, as she hesitated. "—man!" said she, and touched the swollen hand very tenderly with her fingers. "You do not fear me any longer?" "No." "In spite of my eyes and hair?" "In spite of your eyes and hair—you see, a woman knows instinctively whom she must fear and whom not to fear." "Well?" "And you are one I do not fear, and, I think, never should." "Hum!" said I, rubbing my chin, "I am only twenty-five!" "Twenty-five is—twenty-five!" said she demurely. "And yet, I am very like—him—you said so yourself!" "Him!" she exclaimed, starting. "I had forgotten all about him. Where is he—what has become of him?" and she glanced apprehensively towards the door. "Half way to Tonbridge—or should be by now." "Tonbridge!" said she, in a tone of amazement, and turned to look at me again. "Tonbridge!" I repeated. "But he is not the man to—to run away," said she doubtfully—"even from you." "No, indeed!" said I, shaking my head, "he certainly did not run away, but circumstances—and a stone, were too much—even for him." "A stone?" "Upon which he—happened to fall, and strike his head—very fortunately for me." "Was he—much hurt?" "Stunned only," I answered. She was still kneeling beside my chair, but now she sat back, and turned to stare into the fire. And, as she sat, I noticed how full and round and white her arms were, for her sleeves were rolled high, and that the hand, which yet held the sponge, was likewise very white, neither big nor little, a trifle wide, perhaps, but with long, slender fingers. Presently, with a sudden gesture, she raised her head and looked at me again—a long, searching look. "Who are you?" she asked suddenly. "My name," said I, "is Peter." "Yes," she nodded, with her eyes still on mine. "Peter—Smith," I went on, "and, by that same token, I am a blacksmith—very humbly at your service." "Peter—Smith!" she repeated, as though trying the sound of it, hesitating at the surname exactly as I had done. "Peter—Smith!—and mine is Charmian, Charmian—Brown." And here again was a pause between the two names.