“It’s ’most over!” called Benedicta. “I’ll be all right.” She was putting on rubbers over her drenched slippers. Then she took her raincoat from its nail behind the door, and crossed the kitchen.
Polly ran out.
“You can’t control the car in this rain,” she urged, seizing Benedicta’s arm. “You must not go!”
“Let me alone! I’ll put on the chains.”
The door shut behind her, and shortly the car had started on its trip down the mountain.
The children were whimpering. Little Duke lay white and motionless; only the soft breathing told of life.
“She’ll be struck and die, just like Little Duke!” wailed Clementina. Which was the signal for a general shower of tears.
“Don’t! Don’t!” begged Mrs. Daybill. “Little Duke isn’t dead and he isn’t going to be! He is only stunned. He’ll be all right before the doctor gets here—see if he isn’t!”
The cheery tone more than the words soothed the frightened children, and something like quiet began to prevail. Little Duke was now in bed, Polly doing what she could in his behalf.
It was long before Benedicta returned. The storm had passed, though clouds hung dark and heavy above Overlook Mountain. It was dusky inside. Polly stepped out on the veranda, to see if the doctor had come. The car seemed to be full—yes, Lilith and Dr. Abbe were there and another man besides. He jumped out, and Polly caught her breath—it was David Collins!