"It is natural that she should despise his poltroonery and feel grateful
to me," was his thought; "but, after all, it isn't likely she holds any
emotion other than simple gratitude. It would be base in me to presume
upon it. I will not do so."
The drive was comparatively a short one to the handsome residence of the
Warmores. As Tom guided the mettlesome pony through the open gate and up
the winding roadway to the front of the porch, Mrs. Warmore came out pale
with fright. She had just learned of the accident from G. Field
Catherwood, who had limped up the steps with a rambling tale of how he had
been flung headlong from the vehicle at the moment he was about to seize
Jennie and lift her free.
"Thank Heaven!" exclaimed the mother, when she saw her daughter unharmed;
"I was sure you were killed."
Catherwood hobbled forward from behind the lady, leaning on his cane.
"I say 'amen' to those sentiments," he added, too much flustered just then
to use his affected style of speech. "O Jennie, my heart was broken when I
was hurled out before I could save you. Allow me."
"You had better look after your own safety," she said, refusing his help,
as she stepped lightly from the cart.
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