Faces paled with sudden fear; men and women started to their feet in wild affright. There was a shrill whistle, answered by another, a rush and roar, then a crash, many voices blending in an awful cry, and Floy knew no more till, waking as from a deep sleep, she felt herself gently lifted, while a strange voice said:
“She’s only stunned; not much hurt, I hope. But this other woman is horribly mangled, and the man—well, his pains are over for this life at least.”
Instantly restored to perfect consciousness, Floy opened her eyes with a cry, “Mother! father! oh, where are they? Let me go to them!”
The men set her down on a fragment of the wreck, and turned to help those in greater need.
The girl passed her hand over her eyes as if to clear her vision. Oh, was it not all a horrible dream? The heaped-up ruins, the bleeding, mangled forms of the dead and dying, the shrieks, the groans, the cries for help, the running to and fro of those who were trying to give it, the frenzied search for missing loved ones, the wail of anguish over the wounded and the slain!
What was that they were bearing past her? Could that be her mother’s voice asking in quivering, agonized tones for husband and child?
She sprang up and ran after the rude litter on which the crushed and bleeding form was borne along toward a farm-house a few rods distant. She caught sight of the face, white with the pallor of death and convulsed with pain. A gleam of joy shot over it as the eyes fell on the face and figure of Floy. “My darling! safe, thank God!” came from the pale, quivering lips.
“Mother, mother!” cried the girl.
“Be comforted, darling; I can bear it; ’twill not be for long,” gasped the sufferer.