Fiercely she pumped the wheel. She would never stop until she pulled right up to the old gate post, and then she would have to go in, for the cottage looked directly into the road and, no doubt, some of the numerous children would espy her coming.
But just as she guided herself carefully over a rough spot and was taking a necessarily long breath after the exertion, a shout came from somewhere.
She knew the voice. It was Marty’s!
“Hey! Wait a minute!” came the appeal. “Stop! I want to ask you—”
So abruptly did Gloria back pedal she almost fell to the ground.
“What is it, Marty?” she asked, noting the agitation of the child and his tear stained features.
“Oh, come quick! I think she’s dyin’!”
Dropping the wheel to the gutter bank, Gloria silently followed the frightened child to the cottage. He kept moaning and murmuring but his words were strangled in fright. “She’s dyin’,” he repeated.
A chill of terror seized Gloria at the word dying.
“Oh, no,” she cried. “She must not die, and leave all you babies—”