Nell, of Shorne Mills; or, One Heart's Burden. Charles Garvice

was not the doctor's horse; she knew the stamp, stamp of his old gray cob. This was a lighter, more nervous tread.

      Within twenty paces of the cottage she saw the horse and horseman. The former was a beautiful creature, almost thoroughbred, as she knew; for every woman in the district was a horsewoman by instinct and association. The latter was a gentleman in a well-made riding suit of cords. He was riding slowly, his whip striking against his leg absently, his head bent.

      That he was not one of the local gentry Nell saw at the first glance. In that first glance also she noted a certain indescribable grace, an air of elegance, which, as a rule, was certainly lacking in the local gentry. She could not see his face, but there was something strange, distinguished in his attitude and the way he carried himself; and, almost unconsciously, her pace slackened.

      Strangers in Shorne Mills were rare. Nell, being a woman, was curious. As she slowly reached the gate, the man came almost alongside. And at that moment a rabbit scuttled across the road, right under the horse's nose. With the nervousness of the thoroughbred, it shied. The man had it in hand in an instant, and touched it with his left spur to keep it away from the girl. The horse sprang sideways, set its near foot on a stone, and fell, and the next instant the man was lying at Nell's feet.

CHAPTER II.

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      For a moment Nell was too startled to do anything but cry out; then, as the man did not move, she knelt beside him, and still calling for Molly, almost unconsciously raised his head. He had fallen on his side, but had turned over in the instant before losing consciousness; and as Nell lifted his head she felt something wet trickle over her hand, and knew that it was blood.

      She was very much frightened—with the exception of Dick's boyish falls and cuts, it was the first accident at which she had "assisted"—and she had never longed for any one as she longed for Molly. But neither Molly nor any one else came, and Nell, in a helpless, dazed kind of fashion, wiped the blood from the wound.

      Then suddenly she thought of water, and setting his head down as gently as she could, she ran to the stream, saturated her handkerchief, and, returning, took his head on her lap again, and bathed his forehead.

      While she was doing this she recovered her presence of mind sufficiently to look at him with something like the desire to know what he was like; and, with all a woman's quickness of perception, saw that he was extremely good-looking; that he was rather dark than fair; that though he was young—twenty-nine, thirty, flashed through her mind—the hair on his temples was faintly flecked with gray.

      But something more than the masculine beauty of the face struck her, struck her vaguely, and that was the air of distinction which she had noticed in his bearing as he came down the road, and an expression of weariness in the faint lines about the mouth and eyes.

      She was aware, without knowing why, that he was extremely well dressed; she saw that the ungloved hand was long and thin—the hand of a well-bred man—and that everything about him indicated wealth and the gentleman.

      All these observations required but a second or two—a man would only have got at them after an hour—and, almost before they were made, he opened his eyes with the usual dazed and puzzled expression which an individual wears when he has been knocked out of time and is coming back to consciousness.

      As his eyes opened, Nell noticed that they were dark—darker than they should have been to match his hair—and that they were anything but commonplace ones. He looked up at her for an instant or two, then muttered something under his breath—Nell was almost certain that he swore—and aloud, in the toneless voice of the newly conscious, said:

      "I came off, didn't I?"

      "Yes," said Nell.

      She neither blushed nor looked shy. Indeed, she was too frightened, too absorbed by her desire for his recovery to remember herself, or the fact that this strange man's head was lying on her knee.

      "I must have been unconscious," he said, almost to himself. "Yes, I've struck my head."

      Then he got to his feet and stood looking at her; and his face was, if anything, whiter than it had been.

      "I'm very sorry. Permit me to apologize, for I must have frightened you awfully. And"—he looked at her dress, upon which was a large wet patch where his head had rested—"and I've spoiled your dress. In short, I've made a miserable nuisance of myself."

      Nell passed his apology by.

      "Are you hurt?" she asked anxiously.

      "No; I think not," he replied. "I can't think how I managed to come off; I don't usually make such an ass of myself."

      He went for his hat, but as he stooped to pick it up he staggered, and Nell ran to him and caught his arm.

      "You are hurt!" she said. "I—I was afraid so!"

      "I'm giddy, that's all, I think," he said; but his lips closed tightly after his speech, and they twitched at the corners. "I expect my horse is more damaged than I am," he added, and he walked, very slowly, to where the animal stood looking from side to side with a startled air.

      "Yes; knees cut. Poor old chap! It was my fault—my fau——"

      He stopped, and put his hand to his head as if he were confused.

      Nell went and stood close by him, with a vague kind of idea that he was going to fall and that she might help him, support him.

      "You are in pain?" she asked, her brow wrinkled with her anxiety, her eyes darkened with her womanly sympathy and pity.

      "Yes," he admitted frankly. "I've knocked my head, and"—he touched his arm—"and, yes, I'm afraid I've broken my arm."

      "Oh!"—cried Nell, startled and aghast—"oh! you must come into the house at once—at once."

      He glanced at the cottage.

      "Your house?"

      "Yes," said Nell. "Oh, come, please. You may faint again——"

      "Oh, no, I shan't."

      "But you may—you may! Take my arm; lean on me——"

      He took her arm, but did not lean on her, and he smiled down at her.

      "I don't look it, but I weigh nearly twelve stone, and I should bear you down," he said.

      "I'm stronger than I look," said Nell. "Please come!"

      "I'll put the bridle over the gate first," he said.

      "No, no; I will do it. Lean against the gate while I go."

      He rested one hand on the gate. She got the horse—he came as quietly as his master had done—and hitched the bridle on the post; then she drew the man's arm within hers, and led him into the house and into the drawing-room.

      "Sit down," she said; "lean back. I won't be a moment. Oh, where is Molly? But perhaps I'd better not leave you."

      "I'm all right. I assure you that I've no intention of fainting again," he said; and there was something like a touch of irritation in his tone.

      Nell rang the bell and stood looking down at him anxiously. There was not a sign of self-consciousness or embarrassment in her face or manner. She was still thinking only of him.

      "I'm ashamed of myself for giving you so much trouble," he said.

      "It is no trouble. Why should you be ashamed? Oh, Molly! don't cry out or scream—it is all right! Be quiet now, Molly! This gentleman has been thrown from his horse, and——Oh, bring me some brandy; and, Molly, don't tell—don't frighten mamma."

      Molly, with her mouth still wide open, ran out of the room, and Nell's eyes returned to the man.

      He sat gazing at the carpet for a while,