Back up the drive she tore, back to the shadowing trees, back to the piteous little blot in the shadow that was the only thing her world contained in that hour of anguish.
When they reached her she was sunk on the ground beside her favourite, crying his name, while he, whimpering, strove to drag his mangled body into her lap. She tried to lift him, but he yelped so terribly at her touch that she was forced to let him lie.
"Oh, Cinders, Cinders!" she cried, in an agony. "My little darling, what shall I do?"
Someone stooped over her; a quiet hand lay upon her shoulder. "Chris," it was her husband's voice, very grave and tender, "come away, dear. You can't do anything. The poor little chap is past our help."
She lifted a dazed face, staring uncomprehendingly.
"Come away," he repeated.
But when he tried to raise her she resisted him. "And leave him like this? No, never, never! Oh, Trevor, look—look! He is dying! Can't we do something—anything? Oh, he never cried like that before!"
"My dear, there is nothing that you can do." Very gently he made answer. "He can't possibly live. There is only one thing to be done, and that is to put him out of his pain as quickly as possible. But I can't do it with you here. So come away, dear! It's the kindest—in fact, it's the only—thing you can do."
"Are you going to—kill him?" gasped Chris in horror.
He nodded, with compressed lips. "There is no alternative. We can't let him suffer like this."