"You don't mean that you tackled the fellow yourself?" he demanded incredulously. Marjorie nodded. Now that the excitement was over she was beginning to feel a little startled at what she had done. "I had to," she said humbly; "there wasn't any one else to do it. Hortense thinks it was very unladylike, but I don't see what else I could have done. I couldn't just stand by and do nothing while that poor horse was being ill-treated." "No, I don't suppose you could," said Beverly, smiling. "I don't think I would do it again, though; you might get hurt. Hello! what's the matter?--don't you feel well?" For Marjorie had suddenly grown very pale, and leaned against the lamp-post. "It's--it's my wrist," she faltered; "it hurts dreadfully, and--and I think I feel a little faint." Without a moment's hesitation Beverly drew the girl's arm through his. "Come along," he said, peremptorily, and without another word he conducted the wounded soldier back to the hotel. Marjorie, too, was silent; the pain in her wrist was very bad, and she had to bite her lips hard to keep back the rising tears. Hortense, still covered with shame and confusion, followed close behind. At the door of the lift Beverly paused. "Is your aunt at home?" he inquired. "No," said Marjorie, unsteadily; "she and Elsie have gone to New Haven for the football game." "To be sure they have; I had forgotten. Your cousin told me they were going this afternoon. Well, I think I will take you to our apartment. My mother is used to sprains and bruises, and will know what to do for your wrist." Marjorie protested that she could not think of disturbing Mrs. Randolph, but Beverly, who appeared to be accustomed to having his own way, remained firm, and in the end his companion was forced to yield, much to the distress and horror of Hortense, who considered that the story was already known to more persons than Mrs. Carleton would approve. Mrs. Randolph and her brother-in-law were having tea in the former's pretty sitting-room, when the door was unceremoniously flung open, and Beverly appeared on the threshold, leading in a trembling, white-faced girl, who immediately collapsed into the nearest chair, and looked as if she were about to faint. "It's Miss Marjorie Graham, Mother," Beverly explained, "and she has hurt her wrist. Her aunt is away, so I brought her in here. Oh, here's Uncle George; what luck! This is my uncle Dr. Randolph, Miss Marjorie; he is a surgeon, you know, and he'll fix you up in no time." "To be sure I will if I can," said a pleasant voice, not unlike Beverly's. "Let me see what the trouble is. Ah, this is the hand, isn't it?" And Marjorie felt her wrist taken in firm, kind fingers. She winced at the touch, but the doctor's next words were reassuring. "I see; only a slight sprain, nothing serious. Have you some arnica, Barbara, and some linen that I can use for a bandage?"