Against the curb, puffing and grinding, stood the great red
engine; on the front seat a tall policeman sat, one woman in the
back leaned over another, limp against the high cushions, and fanned
her with the stiff vizor of her leather cap.
"It's all right, dear, it's all right," she repeated monotonously,
with set lips, "the doctor's coming. It wasn't Pullton's fault. It's
all right."
Caroline wriggled between two policemen, and made for a striped blue
and white skirt that lay motionless on the ground. Across the white
apron ran a broad dirty smudge.
Caroline ran forward.
"Delia! Delia!" she gulped. "Is she--is she dead?"
A little man with eyeglasses looked up from where he knelt beside
the blue and white skirt.
"I don't believe so, my dear," he said briskly; "is this your nurse?
See, she's opening her eyes, now--speak to her gently."
As he shifted a leather-covered flask from one hand to the other,
Caroline saw a strange face with drawn purplish lids when she had
always known two merry gray eyes, and tight thin lips she could not
believe Delia's. The head moved a little from side to side, the lips
parted slightly. A nervous fear seized her and she turned to run
away; but she remembered suddenly how kind Delia had been to her;
how that very morning--it seemed so long now--Delia had helped her
with her stubby braids of hair, and chided Miss Honey for laughing
at her ignorance of the customs of the park.
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