"They did try again and again, Helen; but with no success. Presently another carriage dashed by, the driver whipping the horse to his utmost speed. I saw a poor man leaning back on the seat, looking very pale, while the blood was oozing from a wound on his head. The crowd screamed out that it was the father of the little girl who had been thrown from the barouche. A gentleman picked him up and wanted to do something for him; but he only pointed up the street, and gasped out,—
"'My child!'"
Poor Lily could keep back her tears no longer, and laying her head in Sarah's lap began to sob.
"Lily," said her mamma, "look up, and hear me finish the story.
"We followed the other carriages until we came to a great crowd of policemen, who were standing about the barouche. The brave little girl had been taken out as soon as the horses were stopped, and there she was in her father's arms. Oh, how he strained her to his breast, as he said,—
"'Thank God! She is spared to me!'"
"Did his head bleed then, mamma?"
"Yes, Helen; but he did not seem to think of himself at all. Tears were running down the cheeks of many who stood by."
"How did they get home, mamma?"
"The gentleman who picked up the father offered to take them to their house, and the policemen took care of the horses till the driver came up."