"Thank God she lives!" he exclaimed with reverent fervor, but his efforts to rouse her to consciousness were unavailing. "It may be only a faint," he thought, but such fainting as he had seen among women had been far less enduring than this, and the memory of that fact greatly alarmed him. He reflected that in any case the shock produced by the dashing of water into the face is desirable at such times, and turning his horse's head he rode down a slope into a shaded, grass-carpeted dell, where a bubbling spring arose. Gently laying the girl on the greensward, but resting her head in his lap, he dashed handfuls of water into her face, with the result of arousing her almost at once. When she opened her eyes they were vacant and dreamy, like those of one only half awakened from sleep, but a few moments later the light came back into them, and she spoke. "Is it you, Boyd? Then you're not dead, as I dreamed you were." "Oh, no, I'm not hurt," he replied--ignoring his lacerated leg--"but you mustn't talk yet. Lie still till you feel better." And with that he gently passed his hand over her eyes, closing them. She lay quiet for a minute or two seemingly asleep, and he, moved by a sudden impulse--whether of passion or pity he knew not--bent over and pressed his lips to hers--gently uttering her name--"Margaret." Instantly he repented, as she opened her eyes and with a flushing face tried to raise herself to a sitting posture, saying as she made the effort. "I reckon you mustn't do that." But the effort to rise was futile. Sharp pain caused her to grow pale again and she sank back as she had been. "Where are you hurt, Margaret?" Boyd asked in sympathetic distress. "I don't know; all over I reckon." "Are any of your bones broken? Feel of them and see." "I reckon not. I can't tell. The pains are all over me--mostly inside. I reckon I'm going to faint." Boyd Westover was now seriously alarmed. He vaguely remembered hearing of persons dying of "internal injuries," though externally showing no hurt. Instantly he lifted the girl again and, mounting with her in his arms, set off at a gallop toward the great house at Wanalah. The sharp prick of a pin, as he adjusted his burden on the withers, attracted his attention to the two flaming red bandana kerchiefs, pinned by their corners to Margaret's shoulders, and in the midst of his apprehensions for her life he found time to wonder why she had decorated herself in that extraordinary way. He was too full of anxious concern to question her on so trivial a matter, but she, recovering herself, volunteered an explanation, after asking him to reduce the horse's gait to a walk. "I reckon I was right foolish," she said, laughing in spite of her pain. "You see this is one of old Aunt Sally's birthdays. She has one every three or four months now, and she's rapidly adding to her ninety years--a year at each birthday. She was my Mammy you know, and so I always take her a present on her birthdays."