She gathered her
courage together and crouched down by the silent, terrifying figure.
"Hel--hello, Delia!" she began jerkily, wincing as the eyes opened
and stared stupidly at the ring of anxious faces. "How do you
f-feel, Delia?"
"Lean down," said the little man softly, "she wants to say
something."
Caroline leaned lower.
"General," Delia muttered. "Where's General?"
The little man frowned.
"Do you know what she means?" he asked.
Caroline patted her bruised cheek.
"Of course I do," she said shortly. "That's the baby. Oh," as she
remembered, "where _is_ the General?"
"Here--here's the baby," called some one. "Push over that carriage,"
and a woman breathing heavily, crowded through the ring with the
general, pink and placid, under his parasol.
"Lift him out," said the little man, and as the woman fumbled at the
strap, he picked the baby out neatly, and held him down by the girl
on the ground.
"Here's your baby, Delia," he said, with a kind roughness in his
voice. "Safe and sound--not a scratch! Can you sit up and take him?"
And then, while the standing crowd craned their necks and even the
steady procession moving in the way the police kept clear for them,
paused a moment to stare, while the little doctor held his breath
and the ambulance came clanging up the street, Delia sat up as
straight as the mounted policeman beside her and held out her arms.
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