The case was one of the present-day many too brief for emergency brakes. The tires smoked with the startled driver’s shout. But from the victim there came not the slightest protest. In another moment, all was motion again. John Cabot gathered the lax form of his son into his arms. A detached look was on his face as he answered the questions of the policeman and other eye witnesses. But while he nodded vaguely and gave his name and address in a quiet voice, he remembered everything, even the puppy. Dolores took up the search of his eyes; followed and picked up the confused little dog. She felt a resentment very like hate at the insinuating way he wagged his tail, as though trying to humbug her into approval of his conduct When she rejoined John---- “Come, Dolores,” he said. Always before he had called her “Miss Trent.” When they reached the wrought-iron gate into the Cabot grounds he stepped aside for her to precede him. That he should think of the puppy and her before himself---- Even in that first full hour, she was impressed by these small remembrances. They told her more of the man than all the greater things which had been accredited to him. She it was who led the way around the clustered shrubbery and past the dryad of the cynical smirk. At the steps she had to right herself from stumbling. Although she was not weeping, she could not see. “Jackie.... _Jack!_” She had not spoken his name; merely had thought it in a hurting dread for herself as well as for him. Was catastrophe always to follow her? Had she brought it upon the boy by growing so close to him through love? That name he had revealed--his “secret” name for her--had that aught to do with the close-heeling of tragedy? “Other mother,” was what he had called her. _Other mother!_ _No._ The accident was to have been. It could not occur because he had whispered a precious name. With passionate jealousy, she defended his tribute. She would--she _must_ have that. * * * * * Along about midnight and quite unexpectedly, Jack became conscious. His mind seemed to open with his eyes. He saw his father first, seated on one side of the historic bed, then glanced about until he found Dolores on the other. From the outer room could be heard the deep-breathing of the celebrated surgeon who had performed the operation. He had preferred to spend the night there, awaiting results. The nurse, too, had been persuaded to a brief rest, since Mr. Cabot and the governess elected to keep the watch. The mother who, all evening, had been in a “state” of grief bordering on hysteria, had been retired to her own apartment by one of her headaches and Dr. Shayle. A remark made to the osteopath in a quite calm voice, however, had suggested that already she had found relief from the shock.