“Yes. Will you come with me and see him, see what can be done for him, rather? His mother is so harsh, so stupid.” “How did you come to hear of the accident?” Winifred's cheek paled a little and she turned her head from him. “I saw it myself. Oh, I shall never, never forget it! just outside Sloane Square station; I was coming home, yesterday. The ground was just as slippery as it is now. Oh, how can I tell you! It makes me shudder to think of it!” “Take your time,” said Kent good-naturedly. She was silent for a few steps. Then, nerving herself, she went on with more coherence. “He was just in front of me when I came out, and as he saw me he ran away, frightened--like a little scared animal; you know his ways. And crossing the road, not looking where he was going, he turned his head round as if to see I was not following him, and then he slipped--oh-h! under the hoofs of a horse--in a hansom. And the driver tried to pull up sharp, and the horse came down too--on top of Jack!” “Good God!” said Kent. “A crowd at once collected. I rushed through--I must have screamed a little and cried that I knew him, for the people made way for me. It all seemed like a horrid dream. I can't tell what happened, except that I found myself kneeling on the ground with the poor little mite's head on my lap. Then someone was talking to me, who said he was a doctor, and began to examine the boy's injuries.” “Is he badly hurt?” “The doctor does not know yet. No bones are broken--the injuries are internal.” “Is he at the hospital?” “No. At his own home. I gave them the address, and told them his mother would care for him--why, I don't know. And then they got a stretcher from the police-station and carried him home, and I went with them and broke it to his mother. But, oh! Mr. Kent, almost the most awful part of it is that it seems as if I was the cause of it.” “Nonsense, my dear child,” said Kent in rough earnestness. “Oh, yes, it is. If it hadn't been for me he would not have run across the road in a fright. Oh! I can see it now--the horse plunging, his hoofs over the child--and then the collapse, and the child hidden under the horse!” They turned down a side street and then another, sinking into the squalour that still remains in that vague river district between Pimlico Pier and Milbank. “Poor little chap! Punishment has come at last,” said Kent. “It has a kind of way of doing so. What does Clytie think of it? Have you told her?” “I only wrote to her yesterday. This morning I got a telegram. I think I have it with me. It is Clytie all over!” She opened the purse she was carrying inside her muff and drew from it a crumpled telegram. It ran: Dreadfully distressed. Get the best of everything, nurse, doctor. Find money to go on with in drawer at once. I must feel that I am doing something. Will write. “Yes, it is like her,” said Kent, with a smile, as he handed it back to her.