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well as being gentry, Kim was also a friend of the St. Larnstons’. He might well have been a member of this afternoon’s shooting party; and to these people the preservation of the birds was more important than the lives of people like us.
    I said anxiously: “Where are you going?”
    “To Dr. Hilliard. He needs immediate attention.”
    “No,” I said in panic.
    “What do you mean?”
    “Don’t you see? He’ll ask where we found him. They’ll know someone’s been in the trap. They’ll know . Don’t you see?”
    “Stealing pheasants,” said Kim.
    “No … no. He never stole. He wanted to help the birds. He cares about birds and animals. You can’t take him to the doctor. Please … please …”
    I caught at his coat and looked up at him.
    “Where then?” he asked.
    “To our cottage. My Granny’s as good as a doctor. Then no one will know …”
    He paused and I thought he would ignore my plea. Then he said, “All right. But I think he needs a doctor.”
    “He needs to be home with me and his Granny.”
    “You’re determined to have your way. It’s wrong, though!”
    “He’s my brother. You know what they would do to him.”
    “Show me the way,” he said; and I led him to the cottage.
    Granny was at the door, frightened, wondering what had become of us. While I told her in breathless jerks what had happened, Kim didn’t say anything; he carried Joe into our cottage and laid him on the floor where Granny had spread out a blanket. Joe looked very small.
    “I think he’s broken his leg,” said Kim.
    Granny nodded.
    Together they bound his leg to a stick; it seemed like a dream to see Kim there in our cottage taking orders from Granny. He stood by while she bathed Joe’s wounds and rubbed ointment into them.
    When she had finished, Kim said: “I still think he ought to see a doctor.”
    “It’s better this way,” Granny answered firmly, because I had told her where we had found him.
    So Kim shrugged his shoulders and went away.
    We watched over Joe all that night, Granny and I, and we knew in the morning that he would live.

    We were frightened. Joe lay on his blankets too sick to care; but we cared. Every time we heard a step, we started up in terror, afraid that it was someone come to take Joe.
    We talked about it in whispers.
    “Granny,” I pleaded, “did I do wrong? He was there and he was big and strong, and I thought he would know how to open the trap. I was afraid, Granny, afraid you and I wouldn’t get Joe out.”
    “You did right,” Granny Bee soothed me. “A night in the trap would have killed our Joe.”
    Then we fell into silence, watching Joe, listening for footsteps.
    “Granny,” I said, “do you think he’ll … ?”
    “I couldn’t say.”
    “He seemed kind, Granny. Different from some.”
    “He did seem kind,” agreed Granny.
    “But he’s a friend of the St. Larnstons’, Granny. That day I was in the wall he were there. He mocked like the rest.”
    Granny nodded.
    Footsteps near the cottage. A rap on the door.
    Granny and I were there simultaneously.
    Mellyora Martin stood smiling at us. She looked very pretty in a mauve and white gingham dress, white stockings and her black, buckled shoes. On her arm she carried a wicker basket which was covered by a white cloth.
    “Good afternoon,” said Mellyora in her sweet high voice.
    Neither Granny nor I answered; we were both too relieved to show anything but our relief.
    “I heard,” went on Mellyora, “so I brought this along for the invalid.”
    She held out the wicker basket.
    Granny took it and said, “For Joe …?”
    Mellyora nodded. “I saw Mr. Kimber this morning. He told me how the boy had had an accident climbing a tree. I thought he might like these …”
    Granny said in a voice meeker than I’d ever heard her use before: “Thank ’ee, Miss.”
    Mellyora smiled. “I hope he will soon be well,” she said. “Good afternoon.”
    We stood at the door watching her as she walked away; then