With trembling fingers and many pauses for rest, he made his toilet. He looked in the mirror, and his heart nearly burst with pride. The suit, to be sure, hung limp on his gaunt frame, and his shaven head gave him the appearance of a shorn lamb, but to Sandy the reflection was eminently satisfying. One thing only seemed to be lacking. He meditated a moment, then, with some misgiving, picked up a small linen doily from the dresser, and carefully folding it, placed it in his breast-pocket, with one corner just visible. Triumphant in mind, if weak in body, he slipped down the back steps, skirted Aunt Melvy's domain, and turned the corner of the house just as the Nelson phaëton rolled out of the yard. Before he had time to give way to utter despair a glimmer of hope appeared on the horizon, for the phaëton stopped, and there was evidently something the matter. Sandy did not wait for it to be remedied. He ran down the road with all the speed he could muster. Near the gate where the little branch crossed the turnpike was a slight embankment, and two wheels of the phaëton had slipped over the edge and were buried deep in the soft earth. Beside it, sitting indignantly in the water, was an irate lady who had evidently attempted to get out backward and had taken a sudden and unexpected seat. Her countenance was a pure specimen of Gothic architecture; a massive pompadour reared itself above two Gothic eyebrows which flanked a nose of unquestioned Gothic tendencies. Her mouth, with its drooping corners, completed the series of arches, and the whole expression was one of aspiring melancholy and injured majesty. Kneeling at her side, reassuring her and wiping the water from her hands, was Ruth Nelson. "God send you ain't hurt, ma'am!" cried Sandy, arriving breathless. The girl looked up and shook her head in smiling protest, but the Gothic lady promptly suffered a relapse. "I am--I know I am! Just look at my dress covered with mud, and my glove is split. Get my smelling-salts, Ruth!" Ruth, upon whom the lady was leaning, turned to Sandy. "Will you hand it to me? It is in the little bag there on the seat." Sandy rushed to do her bidding. He was rather hazy as to the object of his search; but when his fingers touched a round, soft ball he drew it forth and hastily presented it to the lady's Roman nose. She, with closed eyes, was taking deep whiffs when a laugh startled her. "Oh, Aunt Clara, it's your powder-puff!" cried Ruth, unable to restrain her mirth. Mrs. Nelson rose with as much dignity as her draggled condition would permit. "You'd better get me home," she said solemnly. "I may be internally injured." She turned to Sandy. "Boy, can't you get that phaëton back on the road?" Sandy, whose chagrin over his blunder had sent him to the background, came promptly forward. Seizing the wheel, he made several ineffectual efforts to lift it back to the road.