her, stood waiting an ambulance. Her healthy, normal mind did not easily
jump at tragic conclusions. She did not, as a general thing, fear the
worst, did not even accept it when it came, but now, somehow, a close
association of ideas suggested Claire in an instant, and before ever she
had stirred a step, she saw in her mind's eye the delicate little form
she loved, lying injured, maybe mangled, stretched out upon the asphalt,
in the midst of the curious throng.

She hurried, hurried faster than any of the others who were also
hurrying, and pushed her way on through the press to the very edge of
the crowd. A crying woman caught wildly at her arm, as she stood for a
second struggling to advance.

"It's a child!--A little girl--run over by an automobile! O God help
the poor mother!" the stranger sobbed hysterically.

Martha freed herself from the clinging fingers and pressed forward. "A
child--Miss Claire's such a little thing, no wonder they think she's a
child," she murmured. "True for you, my good woman, God help the poor
mother!"

"You know her?"

"I know Miss Claire."

For some reason the crowd made way, and let her through to the very
heart of it, and there--sure enough, there was Claire, but Claire crying
and kneeling over an outstretched little form, lying unconscious on the
pavement.