She had contrived, after the manner of children, to have an accident.

The room was almost bare of furniture, but my lady had found a wooden stool that _could_ be mounted upon and tumbled off, and she had done both, her parent being away.

She had bruised and sprained her little wrist, and was in the depths of despair.
"Ah," said poor Hope, "I was afraid something or other would happen if I left you." He took her to the window, and set her on his knee, and comforted her.

He cut a narrow slip off his pocket handkerchief, wetted it, and bound it lightly and deftly round her wrist, and poured consolation into her ear.
But soon she interrupted that, and flung sorrow to the winds; she uttered three screams of delight, and pointed eagerly through the window.
"Here they be again, the white swans!" Hope looked, and there were two vessels, a brig and a bark, creeping down the river toward the sea, with white sails bellying to a gentle breeze astern.
It is experience that teaches proportion.

The eye of childhood is wonderfully misled in that matter.