“I don’t know. Mrs. Lucas said she did not like to ask for their confidence. She always has them to supper on Sundays, and sends them eggs; but she is poor enough herself with eight children. She thinks the Wendovers will break down now that the winter is coming, and yet they won’t allow any one to guess that they are destitute.” “Dear, dear, dear, how shocking! What _is_ to be done, Aurea?” “I’ve just had my allowance, and I’ll post them a five-pound note to-morrow anonymously, and I’ll get something later on from dad.” “Yes, yes, yes, and I must see what I can do too. Poverty is cruel--a terrible thing--what a trial of one’s character!” “It is indeed, and so are riches sometimes. They seem to change people’s dispositions--if they come in for a fortune.” “That’s true; but I do hope, dear child, you are not thinking of your poor Aunt Bella?” “Aunt Bella was much nicer when she lived in the Red Cottage, dined at one o’clock, and put a penny in the plate.” “Oh, now, Aurea, I can’t let you say that; she is very proud of you, and a dear, kind sister to me. Why, only last week she gave me a lovely lace parasol, and when she writes to me it is always ‘My own darling Susan.’” Aurea was silent. She was thinking of darling Susan’s many deprivations, humiliations, and hardships. “We all have our foibles, have we not, Aurea, my child?” “Oh, I know that, Susan, and I----” Whatever Aurea was going to add was cut short by her aunt’s piercing scream. From some thick bushes on the left bank, a tall figure had shot out; there was a lightning rush, a shout from the chauffeur, who jammed on the brake, then a violent swerve, an upheaval, and a sickening, crunching sensation. A man had deliberately flung himself in front of the car, which had gone over him, then stopped abruptly, shuddering throughout its rickety frame. The driver sprang off and dragged from beneath the wheels a limp and motionless body. Yes, his vague fears had been justified. “It’s Captain Ramsay!” he called to Aurea, who had already hurled herself into the road. “I’m afraid he is done for. Stay where you are.” As he spoke, he raised a limp and bleeding figure in his arms, which he carried to the hedgerow; next, he took off his coat and laid him upon it, and ran and lit a motor lamp. All his actions were surprisingly prompt and vigorous. “Now, will you come over here, miss?” he called to Susan authoritatively, but she was almost beside him. In a crisis, simple, talkative Susan was another person, and could rise to the occasion. “And you, Miss Morven, try and find some water--we passed a stream just now; bring it in anything--your hat or--yes, the salad bowl! I’m afraid it’s a bad business,” he continued, “and his head is all cut--and his wrist--it’s an artery. Miss Susan, fetch a stick quickly, quickly, and I’ll make a tourniquet.”