"We shall have to carry her home," said Kenneth, his voice quivering with agitation; "she's quite unconscious."
Gertie looked at the little blue-cold face, with its closed eyes, and then burst into hysterical sobbing.
"Oh, Ken, she's dead; I know she is, and Rupert and I have killed her," she cried. "Oh, what shall we do—what shall we do?"
"She's not dead," answered Kenneth gravely. "I know, because I saw her eyelids move, but we must get her home as quickly as we can."
It was a very sad and subdued little party which wended its way into the lonely country road towards Berryland Hall. Kenneth found Marcia's weight too heavy to allow of quick walking. Presently, in rounding a corner, they came full tilt upon Dr. Soames, who was driving in his roomy, old-fashioned carriage towards the village.
In a moment the horse was brought to a standstill, and the doctor speedily alighted.
"Hullo!" said he. "What's wrong with Marcia?"
He had known the children from babyhood, and in spite of their many faults and, at times, harum-scarum ways, was much attached to them all. The children's relief at seeing the doctor was unbounded.
"Marcia's been very nearly drowned," vouchsafed Gertie hysterically, "and we're taking her home. Oh, please, doctor dear, see if you can't do something for her."
In a trice the good man took her from Kenneth's keeping, and was very soon feeling her pulse, with an anxious expression on his kind, clever face.