“We—we seem to have fallen out of something,” she confided with the air of one who halves a most precious secret.
“Yes, I know,” said the White Linen Nurse; “but what has become of—your father?”
Worriedly for an instant, the Little Girl sat scanning the remotest corners of the field, then abruptly, with a gasp of real relief, she began to explore with cautious fingers the geographical outline of her black eye.
“Oh, never mind about Father,” she asserted cheerfully. “I guess—I guess he got mad and went home.”
“Yes, I know,” mused the White Linen Nurse; “but it doesn’t seem—probable.”
“Probable?” mocked the Little Girl, most disagreeably; then suddenly her little hand went shooting out toward the stranded automobile.
“Why, there he is,” she screamed—“under the car! Oh, look—look—looky!”
Laboriously the White Linen Nurse scrambled to her knees. Desperately she tried to ram her fingers like a clog into the whirling dizziness round her temples.
“Oh, my God! oh, my God! what’s the dose for anybody under a car?” she babbled idiotically.
Then with a really Herculean effort, both mental and physical, she staggered to her feet, and started for the automobile.