"It is worth while having a sprained ankle, after all." Rose and old Jacques got him on the sled between them though his lips were white with suppressed pain in the effort.
"I sent Jean Baptiste for Dr.Pillule," said old Jacques as he started the mare.

"Monsieur will be--what you call it--all right, when Dr.
Pillule comes." "Might I ask--but, perhaps it would be asking too much ?" the stranger said, looking at Rose.
"What is it ?" "Will you not return with us, and hear whether Dr.Pillule thinks my life in danger ?" Rose laughed.
"I never heard of any one dying from a sprained ankle.

_Malgre cela_, I will return if you wish it, since you got it in my behalf." Rose's steed trotted peaceably beside the sled to the farm-house door.
All the way, the wounded hero lay looking up at the graceful girl, with the rose-red cheeks and auburn curls, and thinking, perhaps, if he were any judge of pictures, what a pretty picture she made.
Rose assisted in helping him into the drawing room of the establishment--which was a very wretched drawing-room indeed.

There was a leather lounge wheeled up before a large fire, and thereon the injured gentleman was laid.
Doctor Pillule had not yet arrived, and old Jacques stood waiting further orders.
"Jacques, fetch a chair.

That is right; put it up here, near me.