In a minute it all had happened. Just how, no one knew. An agonized scream from the little maid, Anita, who was walking behind them, a momentary sight of the tiny, brown-faced Italian boy, her brother, right in the pathway of the swinging car as it rounded the curve—Malcom's spring—and then the boy and himself lying out on the roadside against the wall.
The vigorous crying of the little boy as he rushed into his sister's arms, evinced his safety, but there was a quiet about Malcom that was terrifying.
He had succeeded in throwing the child beyond the reach of the car, but had himself been struck by it, and consciousness was gone.
The little group, so happy a moment before, now hung over him in silent fear and agony. Howard hastened back to get the carriage, and returned to find Malcom slowly struggling to awaken, but when moved, he again fainted; and so, lying in his uncle's arms, with his pale mother and tearful Margery sitting in front, and the others, frightened and sympathetic, hurrying behind, Malcom was brought home through the wonderful sunset glow upon which not one bestowed a single thought.
Chapter VII.
A Startling Disclosure.
'Tis even thus:
In that I live I love; because I love
I live: Whate'er is fountain to the one
Is fountain to the other.
—Tennyson.