She could see Mrs. Newton's drawn, livid face, and the stern, set expression of the men who gathered about in knots here and there discussing the accident in whispers, or arranging the best means of getting back to town. A doctor, who happened to be near at hand, had sprung forward at the first moment of alarm, and he and a strange, kind-faced woman were together bending over the prostrate form between them, while over all arched the high dome of the blue October sky, beyond them stretched the level road, narrowing in the distance to a point that seemed to pierce the sea, and on either side spread the branches of bordering maple trees, each shining brilliant and gorgeous In the autumn sunlight. Presently, in response to a demand from the doctor, a low-hung carriage drew out from the ranks of waiting vehicles, and into it was lifted, oh, so carefully! the inert form of the governess, and her head laid upon Mrs. Newton's lap. Nan pressed close to the wheels. "Can't I go with her?" she whispered. Her companion gazed at her blankly for a moment. Then she seemed to realize the question, and answered it. "No," she replied. "Get my machine, and--and hers, and see that some one carries them back for us--some man will do it." Then without another word she turned her head away, and slowly, slowly the carriage moved and began its snail's-pace journey townward. Nan looked helplessly about her. "Won't some one take the bicycles home?" she pleaded. She never knew who performed the office. She never cared. She gave some stranger her address without the slightest interest as to whether he was trustworthy or no, and then, mounting her own machine, she sped home as fast as the wheels would turn. Thus it was that when the dreary little cavalcade reached home at last everything was in readiness for its reception. There was no difficulty nor delay in getting upstairs, and in an incredibly short time the place had assumed the air of hushed solemnity that always seems to overhang the spot where illness is. Nan crouched outside the threshold of the sick-room and listened to the low sounds within with a feeling of overwhelming guilt at her heart. She dared not go in. At last the door was opened, and the physician stepped forward. He saw Nan cowering in the gloom. "What is this?" he asked kindly. Nan dragged herself up painfully, as though her limbs had been made of lead. "Have I--have I--killed her?" she managed to gasp. The doctor bent on her a pitying look. "Killed her?" he repeated. "I do not know what you mean. Do you mean will she die? No, my child, not if we can help it--and God grant we may. But it may be long, very long, before she is well. She has been badly hurt, poor little soul!" Then followed a term of harrowing suspense. Nights when Nan thought the sun had forgotten how to rise--so long they seemed and never ending.