Still grinding her knuckles into her eyes, the White Linen Nurse turned back to the Little Girl. Under the torn, twisted sable cap one little eye was hidden completely, but the other eye loomed up as rakish and bruised as a prize-fighter’s. One sable sleeve was wrenched disastrously from its armhole, and along the edge of the vivid, purple little skirt the ill-favored white ruffles seemed to have raveled out into hopeless yards and yards and yards of Hamburg embroidery. The Little Girl began to gather herself together a trifle self-consciously. “We--we seem to have fallen out of something,” she confided with the air of one who halves a most precious secret. “Yes, I know,” said the White Linen Nurse; “but _what_ has become of--your father?” Worriedly for an instant, the Little Girl sat scanning the remotest corners of the field, then abruptly, with a gasp of real relief, she began to explore with cautious fingers the geographical outline of her black eye. “Oh, never mind about Father,” she asserted cheerfully. “I guess--I guess he got mad and went home.” “Yes, I know,” mused the White Linen Nurse; “but it doesn’t seem--probable.” “Probable?” mocked the Little Girl, most disagreeably; then suddenly her little hand went shooting out toward the stranded automobile. “Why, _there_ he is,” she screamed--“under the car! Oh, look--look--looky!” Laboriously the White Linen Nurse scrambled to her knees. Desperately she tried to ram her fingers like a clog into the whirling dizziness round her temples. “Oh, my God! oh, my God! what’s the dose for anybody under a car?” she babbled idiotically. Then with a really Herculean effort, both mental and physical, she staggered to her feet, and started for the automobile. But her knees gave out, and wilting down to the grass, she tried to crawl along on all fours till straining wrists sent her back to her feet again. Whenever she tried to walk, the Little Girl walked; whenever she tried to crawl, the Little Girl crawled. “Isn’t it _fun_!” the shrill childish voice piped persistently. “Isn’t it just like playing shipwreck!” When they reached the car, both woman and child were too utterly exhausted with breathlessness to do anything except just sit down on the ground and stare. Sure enough, under that monstrous, immovable-looking machine the Senior Surgeon’s body lay rammed, face down, deep, deep into the grass. It was the Little Girl who recovered her breath first. “I think he’s dead,” she volunteered sagely. “His legs look--awfully dead to me.” Only excitement was in the statement. It took a second or two for her little mind to make any particularly personal application of such excitement. “I hadn’t--exactly--planned--on having _him_ dead,” she began with imperious resentment. A threat of complete emotional collapse zigzagged suddenly across her face. “I won’t have him dead! I won’t! I _won’t_!” she screamed out stormily.