Grandmother carried little Faith out to the wagon, and put her into her mother’s arms, and waited to see them start. It was surely a pretty sight, Anne Peace said; she was watching from her window. Rachel had a gipsy hat full of scarlet poppies tied with scarlet ribbons under her chin. Manuel was bare-headed, his crisp black curls framing his brown handsome face; and between the two dark beauties the little White Rose with her silver curls and apple-blossom face. She was dancing up and down on Rachel’s lap, clapping her hands at the horse. A little piece of quicksilver she was. “Hold her tight, won’t you, Rachel?” said Grandmother; “she does jump about so, bless her!” “I guess I know how to hold my own child!” said Rachel. So—they started, and Grandmother waved good-bye, and then went back to the house with a still look; peaceful and serene, but the radiant light gone out of her face. No one was ever to see that light again. They were gone about an hour. Grandmother was in the garden watching for them, when they came back. It did not need her eyes to see that something was terribly, terribly wrong. Manuel was driving furiously, lashing the horse, who galloped his best. Rachel was in a heap on the floor of the wagon moaning and crying; what was that little white drift on her knees, with the red stain creeping— No! no! I cannot tell that part. Next moment Grandmother had the child in her arms. She towered like an avenging angel over the wretched parents, who cowered at her feet. “She isn’t dead!” shrieked Rachel. “Grandmother, Grandmother, say she isn’t dead. She’s only stunned a little, I tell you. She—lost her balance—” But Manuel cried out hoarsely: “No lies now! we were quarrelling, and we forgot her. She sprang out—” he choked, and no more words came. “_Only one hour!_” said Grandmother. Three words; her terrible eyes said the rest. Grandmother fought for the child’s life, silently, desperately. The doctor came, a kind, quiet man, and they worked together. He said a few cheering words; but meeting Mrs. Peace’s eyes, he shook his head sadly. It lasted an hour or more; the spirit nestled wonderingly in the little broken body, lately all light and strength and answering joy. The sweet eyes opened once or twice, seeking the face that had been their sun. It was there, bending close; it smiled, and White Rose smiled back. The last time, the baby arms moved, fluttered up toward Grandmother, then dropped; the eyes closed. Presently the doctor rose and went out, with bowed head; he was a father of children. The elder woman, weeping silently, went to the window and opened it wide; and the sunset light, rosy and clear, streamed in on Grandmother, sitting motionless, with the dead child in her arms. CHAPTER IX HOW SHE FOUND PEACE