Margaret had dropped on her knees beside the unconscious boy, and placed one hand on his brow. "Bring some water," she said to Isabelle, and began to unbutton the torn sweater.
Conny, with one look at the white face and closed eyes, went softly out into the hall and sat down.
"Will you telephone to Dr. W. S. Rogers in New York, and ask him to send some one if he can't come himself?" Margaret asked the stranger, who was helping her with the boy's clothes.
"Can I telephone any one else—his father?" the man suggested, as he turned to the door.
"No—it would be no use—it's too late to reach him."
Then she turned again to the boy, who was still unconscious….
When the man had finished telephoning, he came back through the hall, where
Conny was sitting.
"How did it happen?" she asked.
"He fell over the culvert,—the high one just as you leave the station, you know. He was riding his bicycle,—I saw the little chap pushing it up the hill as I got out of the train. Then a big touring car passed me, and met another one coming down at full speed. I suppose the boy was frightened and tried to get too far out on the culvert and fell over. The motors didn't notice him; but when I reached the spot, I saw his bicycle hanging on the edge and looked over for him,—could just see his head in the bushes and leaves. Poor little fellow! It was a nasty fall. But the leaves and the rubbish must have broken it somewhat."
"Rob! Rob Falkner!" Isabelle exclaimed, as the man turned and met her at the door. "I didn't recognize you—with your beard! How is Bessie?"