(The reader will perceive that Oswald’s verses were not of the highest quality.) He had got just this length when a sudden shriek disturbed him. The little procession was crossing a side street, and one of the younger children had made a rush from her companion, and in a moment, before anyone could draw a breath, had been knocked down and apparently crushed by a cart which came lumbering slowly up the street, too slow and too heavy to alarm anyone. Oswald, to do him justice, was not given to mooning when there was any need for active service. He rushed across the street, reaching the scene of the disaster before anyone else, except his Perugino, who had flown with one small cry, and was herself half under the heavy cart, pushing it back with all her force, while the others stood aghast and shrieked, not knowing what to do. Nothing could be more swift, more ready, than the Perugino novice. She had already drawn the child half into her arms before Oswald reached the spot, and was feeling the little limbs all over, with a little panting cry, half horror, half want of breath. ‘Let me carry the child to the nearest doctor,’ cried Oswald. The colour had all gone out of the Perugino face--the big wheel of the cart touching her delicate shoulder made a background for her; she was a St. Catherine now. ‘There is something broken; she must go to the hospital,’ the girl said, looking up at him with that sudden acquaintance and confidence which comes in such a moment. Her shoulder brushed against him as she transferred the little burden to him. The child had fainted. He took the poor little crushed creature in his arms. They were within a stone’s throw of the great hospital, and there was nothing to be done but to carry it there. The elder Sister by this time had joined them, sending the curious, anxious, crying girls away under the charge of the remaining governess. ‘Agnes, you ought to go back with them. You are as white as a sheet. You will faint,’ said the Sister, putting an arm round the girl. ‘Oh, no; I am better. Let me go and see what it is,’ she said. Agnes? Was that the name? It was one of the saints, he had felt sure. CHAPTER XVIII. TELLING TALES. ‘Roger has been to pay dear Cara a visit,’ said Mrs. Burchell. ‘He was in London on Sunday with his kind aunt, at Notting Hill, and he thought he would call. I don’t approve of Sunday visits, but I suppose exceptions must be made sometimes, and Roger went; knowing her all his life, you know, he felt interested. Do you know a family called Meredith, Miss Charity? I should not think, from what he tells me of them, that they can be people you would care to know.’ ‘Meredith! but of course you know them, Aunt Charity--poor Annie’s friend, whom she was so fond of--the only person who was allowed to come in when she was ill--the most delightful, kind woman.’