Her first thought was, "How Aunt Ninette will scold!" She tried to hide what had happened.
She twisted her handkerchief about the wounded arm, and she ran to the spring before the house, to wash out all signs of blood.

It was useless; the blood flowed out under the bandage in a stream, and soon her dress was spotted all over with the red drops.
"Dora! Dora!" called some one from above.

It was her aunt; there was no help for it; she must show herself.

In fear and trembling, she mounted the stairs and stood before her aunt, hiding the bandaged arm behind her.

Her pretty Sunday dress was stained with blood, and her face too; for in her eagerness to wash it off she had spread it everywhere.
"Merciful Heaven!" cried her aunt, "what is the matter?
Speak, child, did you fall down?
How you look! You are as pale as death, and all smeared with blood! Dora, for heaven's sake, do speak!" Dora had been trying to speak, but she could not get in a word edgewise.
At last she said timidly, "It was an arrow!" A flood of lamentations followed.