Then all at once something terrible happened.
Frank Laurier’s gayly prancing horses suddenly snorted with fear and rage, and bounded forward so swiftly that he lost his grip on the reins, having been momentarily unstrung by a meeting he had anticipated ever since entering the park.
A dreadful panic ensued on the crowded driveway.
The air was filled with shouts and cries that only maddened the frantic steeds dashing madly forward without control, for all Laurier’s efforts to regain his reins were fruitless, and, leaning too far forward, he was jerked violently to one side and thrown from the vehicle out upon the ground, leaving Jessie alone, clinging desperately to the seat, her lovely face convulsed with terror, her dark eyes dilated with fear and dim with raining tears, a picture of beauty and distress, while her frightened shrieks rang wildly on the air.
Another harrowing moment, and the anguished voice was hushed, the sweet eyes closed, the throbbing heart stilled! In their mad rush trying to evade capture, the horses collided with a tree, shattering the light vehicle, and hurling the young girl out upon the grass. All white and unconscious, she lay there, a thin stream of blood trickling down her temple where a stone had grazed it and staining the gold of her hair with crimson.
A sympathetic crowd soon gathered around, exclaiming in wonder and pity at her girlish beauty and her sorrowful plight.
But in a minute a light dogcart that had swiftly followed the runaways was reined in upon the spot, and a young man sprang quickly from it, advancing on the scene, while he cried with an air of authority:
“Stand back, everybody, and give her air!”
“Who is she? Who is she?” rang on every side, and the young man, who was no other than Carey Doyle, answered impudently:
“She is my little sister Jessie, and I would like to take her home, if you people will give me room to pass!”