They carried her into the house and laid her on a bed. Floy knelt by her side, grasping the dear hand in hers, laying it to her cheek, pressing it to her lips, passionately weeping with a grief that seemed to rend her heart asunder.
“Floy, dearest, it is all right. God’s will be done. He knows best. He will comfort you.”
The quick ear of the girl scarcely caught the low-breathed words, and with the last Mrs. Kemper fainted.
At the same moment a gentleman came hastily in and stepped to the bedside.
Instinctively Floy comprehended his errand, even ere he laid his finger on the pulse or raised the shawl that half concealed the shattered form.
She rose, outwardly calm and collected.
“Can my mother live?” she asked.
“For some hours,” he said, looking pityingly into the grief-stricken face of his questioner.
“Where is she hurt?”