Again Norman’s face was out of sight.
“Mamma?” Ethel’s understanding perceived, but her mind refused to grasp the extent of the calamity. There was no answer, save a convulsive squeezing of her hand.
Fresh sounds below recalled her to speech and action.
“Where is she? What are they doing for her? What—”
“There’s nothing to be done. She—when they lifted her up, she was—”
“Dead?”
“Dead.”
The boy lay with his face hidden, the girl sat by him on the floor, too much crushed for even the sensations belonging to grief, neither moving nor looking. After an interval Norman spoke again, “The carriage turned right over—her head struck on the kerb stone—”
“Did you see?” said Ethel presently.
“I saw them lift her up.” He spoke at intervals, as he could get breath and bear to utter the words. “And papa—he was stunned—but soon he sat up, said he would go to her—he looked at her—felt her pulse, and then—sank down over her!”