Marushka and Banda Bela had been sent on an errand to a farm not far from the village and were walking homeward in the twilight. Down the road came a peasant's cart just as from the opposite direction came the "honk-honk" of the Baron's motor. Such a sight had never appeared to the horses before in all their lives. They reared up on their hind legs, pawing the air wildly as the driver tried to turn them aside to let the motor pass. A woman and a baby sat in the cart, and, as the horses became unmanageable and overturned the cart into the ditch, the woman was thrown out and the baby rolled from her arms right in front of the motor. The mechanician had tried to stop his car, but there was something wrong with the brake and he could not stop all at once. Marushka saw the baby. If there was one thing she loved more than another it was a baby. She saw its danger and in a second she dashed across the road, snatched up the little one and ran up the other side of the road just as the motor passed over the spot where the baby had fallen. "Marushka," cried Banda Bela as he ran around the motor. "Are you hurt?" "Brave child!" cried the Baron, who sprang from his car and hurried to the group of frightened peasants. "Are you injured?" "Not at all, Most Noble Baron," said Marushka, not forgetting to make her courtesy, though it was not easy with the baby in her arms. The child's mother had by this time picked herself out of the ditch and rushed over to where Maruskha stood, the baby still in her arms and cooing delightedly as he looked into the child's sweet face, his tiny hand clutching the silver medal which always hung about Marushka's neck. The mother snatched the baby to her breast and, seating herself by the roadside, she felt all over its little body to see if it was hurt. "You have this brave little girl to thank that your baby was not killed," said the Baron. The woman turned to Marushka. "I thank you for--" she began, stopped abruptly, and then stared at the little girl with an expression of amazement. "Child, who are you?" she demanded. "Marushka," said the little girl simply. The woman put her hand to her head. "It is her image," she muttered. "Her very self!" The Baroness had alighted from the motor and came up in time to hear the woman's words. "Whose image?" she demanded sharply. The woman changed colour and put her baby down on the grass. "The little girl looks like a child I saw in America," she stammered, her face flushing. "Was she an American child?" demanded the Baroness. "Oh, yes, Your Graciousness," said the woman hastily. "Of course, she was an American child." "Now I know that you are speaking falsely," said the Baroness. "This little one looks like no American child who was ever born. Léon," turning to her husband, "is this one of your peasants?" Then she added in a tone too low to be heard by anyone but her husband, "I know that she can tell something about this little girl. Question her."