Margaret was standing in the sun, her nostrils dilated, absorbing the light, the source of joy and life.
"Windward Islands, eh?" Conny coughed, settling herself comfortably in her corner.
"The real land," Margaret murmured to herself.
The chauffeur had reached for the lever when there appeared on the drive two men bearing something between them, a human something, carefully.
"What's that!" exclaimed Conny in a frightened voice. "What is it?" she repeated to the chauffeur,—demanding of a man something in his province to know.
"Looks though they had a child—hurt," the chauffeur replied.
Margaret, shading her eyes with a thin hand, looked down the avenue. She made no movement to go towards the men,—merely waited motionless for the thing to come. And the men came slowly forward, past the car, up the steps.
It was the older boy. The man who held the head and shoulders of the child said, "An accident—not serious, I believe."
Margaret opened the door and pointed to the lounge before the fire. The man who had spoken laid the boy down very gently with his head on a cushion, and smoothed back the rumpled hair.
"I will go for the doctor," the other man said, and presently there was the sound of the motor leaping down the hill.