little creature drop. The coachman pulled up
with all the force he could, nearly throwing his
horses on their haunches, but he was unable to
stop them before one of the front wheels had
passed over the child, who lay motionless, close
to the hoofs of the plunging and frightened
beasts.

A young gentleman instantly sprang down
from the box, but before he could reach the
child, she had been lifted up in the strong arms
of a stalwart policeman, who held her with great,
gentleness, though in a sort of cool official
manner, devoid of any excitement whatsoever.

"Good God!" exclaimed the young gentleman,
making his way through the throng, "I
hope it's nothing serious. She's — she's not
killed, is she?"

For the child's face was still as marble, and
almost as white. It was a pretty little face,
with delicate features and a mass of thick gold-
brown curls falling back from the forehead, as
she lay with her head drooping over the
policeman's shoulder.

"No, no, sir," rejoined the man who held
her. "Not killed certainly. She has fainted
away. She'd best be took to the hospital at
once. A doctor 'ud soon say whether there's
any bones broke or not."

Meanwhile the lame man, who had been
separated from the child in the crowd, and had been
vainly seeking for her, perceived nothing of the
accident until he heard the pitying exclamations
of the bystanders, and saw the little white face
raised up above the crowd. He turned and
made for the spot where the child was, with
frantic haste, limping along at a surprising speed,
and making his way through the thickest of the
throng, which opened for him to pass, as though
informed by some mysterious means that the
child who had been run over belonged to him.
He arrived in time to hear the policeman's
recommendation. "No!" he panted, speaking in
a thick voice, and labouring painfully for breath.
"No, never! Take her home. Give her to
me. She shall not go to the hospital. Corda,
Corda, my pretty one! My poor darling!"

Then turning to the late occupant of the
carriage, the lame man shook his fist in his face
with a frightful oath, and cried frantically that
he had murdered the child, and should be
brought to justice. And then he fell to moaning
and whimpering over the impassive little
face that lay still and piteous on the policeman's
dark-blue breast.

"Come," said the constable, sternly, "none
o' that. The accident's nobody's fault but yours,
for leaving a little child like that in such a
crowd. I seen the 'ole affair. If the coachman
hadn't have pulled up when he did, she'd have
been cut in two by the wheels. If you won't
let her go to the hospital, you'd better take her
home at once and send for a doctor, instead
of blubbering and blustering here."

"I am deeply distressed," said the young
gentleman, whom the lame man had assailed
with such fury, "I am deeply distressed that
the accident should have happened; though I
cannot think my man to blame. He was not
driving carelessly, and the poor little thing was
thrown almost under the wheels. But if you
will tell me your address, I will put her into the
carriage and have her driven home quickly and
smoothly."

"Oh yes, yes; let me get out, pray, and put the
child in my place," said a sweet trembling voice.
The young girl to whom the voice belonged
leaned eagerly forward, and made as though she
would have opened the carriage door. Two
other ladies sat within the vehicle; one, a hard-
featured, richly dressed young woman, sat very
quiet, and observant of the scene; the other
had thrown herself back in her seat, and put
up a pair of daintily gloved hands so as to
conceal her face.

The lame man looked from one to another in
a helpless way, seeming to be divided between
anger against the occupants of the carriage, and
apprehension for his daughter. But the policeman,
with a muttered expression of his opinion
that enough time had been wasted in "jaw,"
settled the matter by lifting the still insensible
child into the carriage, and laying her on the
cushions, with her head resting on the lap of the
young girl who had spoken. "Now," said he,
with a highly disapproving glance at the child's
father, "look sharp and tell the gentleman's
coachman where to drive; and move on there,
will you? You're stoppin' all the line." With
those words the guardian of public security
resumed his post amidst plunging horses and
rolling wheels, directing the confusion with
imperturbable self-possession.

"Good Heavens!" exclaimed the lady who
had hidden her face, revealing, as she removed her
hands, a countenance of striking beauty; "good
Heavens, Penny, what are they doing? Jackson
is positively driving off. And this unfortunate
but dreadful child! Suppose she should die
here! Oh, it's too terrible. Where is Clement?
What shall we do?"

"Don't be a fool," rejoined the elder lady,
dryly. "Of course Jackson must drive off.
We couldn't stay there all day. I suppose they
have told him where the child's home is. Some
back slum, no doubt. I don't understand why
they could not have put her into a cab. But
it's one of Clem's ideas."

She spoke with a hard repulsive manner, and
her small steel-bright eyes and projecting chin
were not pleasant to look upon. Nevertheless,
she bent forward and spread her handkerchief
over the little curly head that lay bare to the
scorching sunshine.

The young girl on whose knees the child
rested looked up with eyes full of tears. She
was a very young girl, not more, apparently,
than sixteen years of age, and she was trembling
and pale. "Oh, poor little dear," she said,
softly. "Is she not a sweet-looking little
creature, Miss Charlewood? Look at her poor
pretty curls all soiled with dust. Oh, I do hope
she is not seriously hurt."

The carriage had now got clear of the crush
of other vehicles, and the coachman was urging