"Practical problems are what count--not theoretical
ones. Does she seem all right, Grace?" and she looked around at the
unconscious girl.
"Yes, and her breathing is better. I think she will soon come to."
"That's good. See, there's a house. We can take her in, and ask where
the nearest doctor is," and Betty pointed ahead.
Presently the auto stopped before it, and to a motherly-looking woman
who came out, Betty and the girls quickly explained what had happened.
"Of course! Bring the poor dear in!" the woman directed. "The men folks
are over in the far meadow salting the cows, or I'd send one of them for
Dr. Brown. He's most likely to be home too, now. He lives down the road
a piece--about a mile."
"I can go for him in the car, and bring him back," said Mollie.
"That's good. Bring the poor dear in the bedroom, and we'll look after
her until the doctor comes. I'll get the camphor bottle. That's good for
a faint."
The girl seemed to have again sunk into a stupor, as they carried her
in, and placed her on a comfortable lounge. Then the woman of the house
brought out a bottle of camphor, of generous size, and it was held to
the nostrils of the unconscious one.
The sufferer turned her head away from the pungent odor, and seemed to
be struggling against some unseen force. Again she seemed to revive
somewhat, and muttered:
"Oh, I can't! I can't! I don't want to go back to him! Anything but
that! I don't like--I can't bear that life!"
Her voice trailed off into a mere whisper.
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