While the physician assured Madge that his vehicle was not injured in the least, and that he would not have minded its being smashed into bits so long as she was unhurt, a woman walked across the yard and glared angrily at Madge.
"Young woman," she said in a thin, high voice, "look—look at what you and that wretched horse have done."
Madge blinked some of the dirt from her eyes, then tried to twist her hair back into some kind of order. "I am sorry," she answered in bewilderment. "But what have we done?"
David swallowed a malicious grin of satisfaction.
The woman fairly gasped at Madge's question. "You've torn up my lawn, trampled down my prize rose-bush, and—and—please take the young woman away, doctor. My nerves won't endure anything more after the night I have spent. I am sure I would never dare trust my life to any one who goes about turning over buggies and ruining people's gardens."
Trust her life? Of what was the woman talking? Madge thought she could not have heard aright.
"Never mind your lawn, Miss Betsey," answered Dr. Alden severely. "Be grateful that the child isn't hurt. Thank you, David." The doctor began fumbling in his pocket for his money.
Madge saw her rescuer's face turn scarlet. He was a manly looking fellow of perhaps eighteen.
With a muttered, "I'm not a beggar," he turned and walked away from them.
After exchanging a little further conversation with Miss Betsey, the doctor and Madge drove away. Outside the yard Madge began to laugh. She could still see the old maid wringing her hands and gazing in anguish at her cherished garden.