"Down he dropped on both knees beside her, and raised her head upon his arm"
The ground where she lay was spongy after a day of heavy rain which had soaked through the thick carpet of dead grass, deeply into the earth. The girl's position was easy, giving Loveland the hope that no bones were broken, and there was no stain of blood on the white face or the soft brown hair. But she lay very still; there was no flutter of the eyelashes, no faint gasping for breath.
Sick with fear that she might be dead, Loveland's memory refused the barrier between them. He was conscious only of his love for her, and his passionate remorse for the wish, harboured for a moment—the wish that she might let something happen to the car, and that they two might go out of the world together. There was no torture which he would not have prayed to suffer now, if through it he could even hope to bring her back to life.
"Dearest—precious one—darling!" he called her. "For God's sake wake up. Speak to me—only speak to me. I love you so!"
Instantly she opened her eyes wide, shivering a little in his arms, and looked up at him—half dazedly at first, then smiling as a woman might who has dreamed of a distant lover and wakes to find him near.
"Thank God you're not dead!" he stammered.
"And that—you're not!" she answered faintly. "You—you're not much hurt?"
"Not at all, and if I were it wouldn't matter," Loveland assured her fervently. "If only I hadn't let you drive—or if I hadn't talked to you!—it's all my fault. What shall I do if you're injured?"