But the summoner had turned and fled at the first sight of the lady's garments.

Miss Rutherford darted into the schoolroom, and at once there was quietness, save for half-choked sobs here and there, and a more ominous kind of moaning from the crowded corner.
"Gracious goodness, children, what is it?
Who's that lying on the floor?
Harriet Smales! What _ever_ has happened ?" The cluster of children had fallen aside, exposing a strange picture.
On the ground lay a girl of twelve, her face deadly pale, save in the places where it was dabbled with fresh blood, which still streamed from a gash on the right side of her forehead.

Her eyes were half opened; she was just recovering consciousness; a moan came from her at intervals.

She had for support the lap and arms of a little girl, perhaps two years younger than herself.

Heedless of the flowing blood, this child was pressing her pale cheek against that of the wounded one, whose name she kept murmuring in pitiful accents, mixed with endearing epithets.