’Your father, I fear, is seriously hurt. As you say, he was leaning out of the window when the coach turned over, and it went down on the side where he was.’ ’Bring me my cloak from the chaise. It is chilly, and the spot is desolate. Il me donne les frissons.’ She spoke with wonderful composure. She might have been on a picnic, and the dish with the chicken pie broken; yet she had narrowly escaped death herself, and her father was lying dead a few feet from her. The young man looked at her face, a little surprised at her perfect coolness. The face was wax-like, of transparent whiteness; there was no colour in it. But then she was cold and possibly frightened, though betraying no fear in her manner. Her features were regular and of extraordinary beauty. Her eyes were large and the lashes long; her hair abundant and black. Of emotion in her face there was none. ’I remember my father said he had suffered from the rheumatism. Pray take him from off the grass.’ The young man thought to himself, ’He will never suffer from that more;’ but he made no answer. He went back to the man lying on the turf, knelt over him, and examined him. Joyce stood by with arms folded. ’Is there any house near to which this gentleman could be removed? he asked. ’West Wyke,’ answered Joyce. ’Where is that?’ She made a motion with her chin, indicating the direction. ’And is there a gate to be had on which I can lay him?’ She jerked her chin again. ’Now, sir,’ said the post-boy, coming up, ’I’ve got the osses quiet, what can I do for you?’ ’This gentleman must be removed at once on a hurdle or gate. Run and bring me one.’ ’Be he hurted cruel bad?’ asked the boy. ’He is dead.’ ’Deary me!’ exclaimed the post-boy. ’What a mussy it weren’t one of the osses. Make us truly thankful. I’ll get you a gate.’ ’I’ll help you,’ said Joyce. ’You don’t look a sort to carry a gate. Do you call yourself a man or a rat?’ Presently the two returned with a hurdle; that is to say, Joyce was carrying one on her head, casting occasionally a contemptuous glance at the dapper little fellow at her side. ’Is my father able to speak yet?’ asked the lady. ’No,’ answered the young man. ’Do not be alarmed. We must carry him to a house, where he can be put to bed, and then we will return for you. Do you mind being left alone, or can you walk as far as to the house?’ ’I have already told you that I cannot walk. You are forgetful, monsieur.’ ’Then this girl will remain with you till we return.’ ’Very well. If she likes to remain she may remain. It is her affair.’ The young lady spoke with a foreign—a French accent, which was pretty. Indeed, there was a foreign grace in her attitudes, and taste in her dress, which showed that, if an Englishwoman, she must have lived a great deal in France. The gentleman returned to Joyce; he was a tall and fine young man, with dark hair and moustache and frank blue eyes.