"He's not killed. It was mere duck shot. Don't talk such stuff.—My own poor little man!" cried George. "Charles, where were our eyes?"
"He wanted to catch the bird," moaned our companion. "Baby, my boy! open your eyes. Speak to your mother. For God's sake, get some help!"
She had put out her hands to take the child from Bingham, who had half angrily lifted him out of her reach. The senseless movement with which, as she disengaged him from Bingham's grasp, he sank into her arms, was clearly the senselessness of death. She burst into sobs. I went and examined the child.
"He may not be killed," I said, turning to Bingham; "keep your senses. It's not your fault. We couldn't see each other."
Bingham rose stupidly to his feet.
"She must be got home," I said.
"We must get a carriage. Will you go or stay?"
I saw that he had seen the truth. He looked about him with an expression of miserable impotence. "Poor little devil!" he said, hoarsely.
"Will you go for a carriage?" I repeated, taking his hand, "or will you stay?"
Our companion's sobs redoubled their violence.
"I'll stay," said he. "Bring some woman."
I started at a hard run. I left the beach behind me, passed the white cottage at whose garden gate two women were gossiping, and reached the hotel stable, where I had the good fortune to find a vehicle at my disposal. I drove straight back to the white cottage. One of the women had disappeared, and the other was lingering among her flowers,—a middle-aged, keen-eyed person. As I descended and hastily addressed her, I read in her rapid glance an anticipation of evil tidings.
"The young woman who stays with you—" I began.
"Yes," she said, "my second-cousin. Well?"
"She's in trouble. She wants you to come to her. Her little boy has hurt himself." I had time to see that I need fear no hysterics.
"Where did you leave her?" asked my companion.
"On the beach."
"What 's the matter with the child?"
"He fell from a rock. There 's no time to be lost." There was a certain antique rigidity about the woman which was at once irritating and reassuring. I was impelled both to quicken her apprehensions and to confide in her self-control. "For all I know, ma'am," said I, "the child is killed."
She gave me an angry stare. "For all you know!" she exclaimed. "Where were your wits? Were you afraid to look at him?"
"Yes, half afraid."
She glanced over the paling at my vehicle. "Am I to get into that?" she asked.
"If you will be so good."
She turned short about, and re-entered the house, where, as I stood out among the dahlias and the pinks, I heard a rapid opening and shutting of drawers. She shortly reappeared, equipped for driving; and, having locked the house door, and pocketed the key, came and faced me, where I stood ready to help her into the wagon.
"We 'll stop for the doctor," she began.
"The doctor," said I, "is of no use."
A few moments of hard driving brought us to my starting-point. The tide had fallen perceptibly in my absence; and I remember receiving a strange impression of the irretrievable nature of the recent event from the sight of poor Bingham, standing down at the low-water-mark, and looking seaward with his hands in his pockets. The mother of his little victim still sat on the heap of stones where she had fallen, pressing her child to her breast. I helped my companion to descend, which she did with great deliberation. It is my belief that, as we drove along the beach, she derived from the expression of Bingham's figure, and from
