For an instant, only the similarity of the figure to Lanse's struck her,
for the wavering walk and bandaged head, with hand pressed to the
forehead, did not suggest her brother. At the next instant the man
lifted a white face, and Charlotte gave a startled cry as she saw that
it was John Lansing himself, in a sorry plight.
She ran to him. His head was clumsily tied up in a soiled cloth, which
the blood was beginning to stain. As she put her arm about him he smiled
wanly down at her, murmuring, "Thought I couldn't make it--glad I have.
No--not the house--Doctor's office. Don't want to scare Celia. It's
nothing."
It might be nothing, but he was leaning heavily on his sister's strong
young shoulder as they crossed the threshold of Doctor Churchill's
little office, Charlotte having flung open the door without waiting to
ring. Nobody was there.
"No, don't try to sit up in a chair. Here, lie down on the couch," she
insisted, and Lanse yielded, none too soon. His face had lost all colour
by the time he had stretched his tall form on the wide leather couch
which stood ready for just such occupants.
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