The knee was still bleeding profusely—it was a deep cut right in the joint.
‘You’d better go for the doctor, Egbert,’ said Winifred bitterly.
‘Oh, no! Oh, no!’ cried Joyce in a panic.
‘Joyce, my darling, don’t cry!’ said Winifred, suddenly catching the little girl to her breast in a strange tragic anguish, the Mater Dolorata. Even the child was frightened into silence. Egbert looked at the tragic figure of his wife with the child at her breast, and turned away. Only Annabel started suddenly to cry: ‘Joycey, Joycey, don’t have your leg bleeding!’
Egbert rode four miles to the village for the doctor. He could not help feeling that Winifred was laying it on rather. Surely the knee itself wasn’t hurt! Surely not. It was only a surface cut.
The doctor was out. Egbert left the message and c
