Little Mary never finished her sentence, for Berty heard that word “pocket-book,” saw and recognized the strange gentleman getting out of the stage, and, putting both hands to her bosom, darted, with a wild cry of terror, out into the street. Tim dropped his basket and sprang after her; but he was too late,—the stage-horses, frightened by the cry, had started on, trampling poor Berty under their feet.
There was a moment’s confusion, little Mary and the stage-passengers screaming, and Tim, the Doctor, and Mrs. Grey’s coachman all springing to the horses’ heads while a little crowd of people gathered round. Then Dr. John pushed his way through it, bearing Berty in his arms, bleeding, bruised, and quite insensible.
“Don’t bring her in here, John! pray don’t!” called out aunt Emily from the window,—to which she and Mrs. Grey had been attracted by Mary’s cries,—as she saw the young Doctor turning towards the steps. “She’ll die, or there’ll have to be some operation, and I never could bear it in the world. Don’t bring her here.”
Dr. John made an impatient gesture, and looked appealingly towards Mrs. Grey: “Shall I take her home, grandmother?”
“Certainly, John,” said the good lady, “if you do not think it too far. She is not dead?”
“No; only fainted,” said the Doctor, “and shockingly hurt. Bring me out some hartshorn, and lend me your handkerchiefs, some of you,” added he, bearing the child towards the carriage.
“Cousin John,” said Mary, pushing her way through the crowd, “why don’t you take her to the hospital? It is so much nearer, and you were going there, you know.”
“The very thing. You have more sense than any of us, Polly,” cried the Doctor, springing into the carriage with Berty still in his arms. “Drive to the hospital, Tom, carefully, but as quickly as possible.”
“And her brother,—here’s her brother. Pray, let him go with you, cousin,” said Mary, pushing poor, frightened, anxious Tim towards the carriage-door.
“Certainly. Jump in, my little fellow,” said the Doctor, kindly.