They were gone about an hour. Grandmother was in the garden watching for them, when they came back. It did not need her eyes to see that something was terribly, terribly wrong. Manuel was driving furiously, lashing the horse, who galloped his best. Rachel was in a heap on the floor of the wagon moaning and crying; what was that little white drift on her knees, with the red stain creeping—
No! no! I cannot tell that part.
Next moment Grandmother had the child in her arms. She towered like an avenging angel over the wretched parents, who cowered at her feet.
“She isn’t dead!” shrieked Rachel. “Grandmother, Grandmother, say she isn’t dead. She’s only stunned a little, I tell you. She—lost her balance—”
But Manuel cried out hoarsely: “No lies now! we were quarrelling, and we forgot her. She sprang out—” he choked, and no more words came.
“Only one hour!” said Grandmother. Three words; her terrible eyes said the rest.
Grandmother fought for the child’s life, silently, desperately. The doctor came, a kind, quiet man, and they worked together. He said a few cheering words; but meeting Mrs. Peace’s eyes, he shook his head sadly.
It lasted an hour or more; the spirit nestled wonderingly in the little broken body, lately all light and strength and answering joy. The sweet eyes opened once or twice, seeking the face that had been their sun. It was there, bending close; it smiled, and White Rose smiled back. The last time, the baby arms moved, fluttered up toward Grandmother, then dropped; the eyes closed.
Presently the doctor rose and went out, with bowed head; he was a father of children. The elder woman, weeping silently, went to the window and opened it wide; and the sunset light, rosy and clear, streamed in on Grandmother, sitting motionless, with the dead child in her arms.