The panting and alarmed teacher stooped and peered into the dark shadow between the dashboard and the back curtain. All she could make out at first were a pair of thin ankles and “Congress” shoes in agitated motion. These bobbed up and down behind the overturned seat and its displaced cushion. “O Mrs. Beasley!” screamed Phoebe. “Are you hurt?” Debby, of course, did not hear the question. She continued to groan and scream for help. Her lungs were not injured, at all events. The schoolmistress, dropping on her knees, reached into the sulky top and tugged at the seat. It was rather tightly wedged, but she managed to loosen it and pull it toward her. The widow raised herself on an elbow and looked out between the flowers of her smashed bonnet. “Who is it?” she demanded. “Oh, is that you, Miss Dorcas? Oh, my soul and body! Oh, my stars! Oh, my goodness me!” “Are you hurt?” shrieked Phoebe. “Hey? I don't know! I don't know WHAT I be! I don't know nothin'!” “Can you help yourself? Can you get up?” “Hey? I don't know. Maybe I can if you haul that everlastin' seat out of the way. Oh, my sakes alive!” Her rescuer pulled the seat forward, and, with an effort, tumbled it clear of the curtains. Debby raised herself still higher. “Oh!” she groaned. “Talk about--Land sakes! who's comin'? Men, ain't it? Let me out of here quick! QUICK!” She scrambled out of her prison on hands and knees, and jumped to her feet with reassuring alacrity. Her fur-collared cape was draped in a roll about her neck, and her bonnet hung jauntily over her left eye. “I'm a sight, ain't I?” she asked. “Haul this bunnet straight, quick's ever you can. Hurt? No, no! I ain't hurt none but my feelin's. Hurry UP! S'pose I want them men folks to see me with everything all hind side to?” Miss Dawes, relieved to find that the accident had had no serious consequences, and trying her hardest not to laugh, assisted the widow to rearrange her wearing apparel. The blacksmith and his helper came running up the hill. “Hello, Debby!” hailed the former. “What's the matter? Hurt, be you?” Mrs. Beasley, whether she heard or not, did not deign to reply. “Get my horn out of that carriage,” she ordered. “Don't stand there gapin'. Get it.” The ear trumpet was resurrected from the interior of the vehicle. The widow adjusted it with dignity. “Had a spill, didn't you, Debby?” inquired the blacksmith. “Upset, didn't you?” Debby glared at him. “No,” she replied with sarcasm. “Course I didn't upset! Just thought I'd roll round in the road for the fun of it. Smart question, that is! Where's that Bailey Bangs gone to with the rest of my carriage?” The blacksmith pointed to his shop in the hollow. Before it stood Mr. Bangs, holding Henry by the bridle, and staring in their direction. “He's all right,” volunteered the “helper.” “The horse stopped runnin' soon's he got to the foot of the next hill.” Mrs. Beasley was not, apparently, overjoyed at the news.