Margaret's lips parted, but before she could speak there came a hoarse shout and a quick cry of terror. The next instant the car under Brandon's skilful hands swerved sharply and just avoided a collision with a boy on a bicycle. "Narrow shave, that," muttered Brandon. "He wasn't even looking where he was going." Margaret shuddered. She turned her gaze to the right and to the left. Everywhere were wan faces and sunken eyes. With a little cry she clutched Brandon's arm. "Can't we go faster--faster," she moaned. "I want to get away--away!" For answer came the sharp "honk-honk" of the horn, and the car bounded forward. With a shout the crowd fell back, and with another "honk-honk" Brandon took the first turn to the right. "I think we're out of the worst of it," he cried in Margaret's ear. "If we keep to the right, we'll go through only the edge of the town." Even as he spoke, the way cleared more and more before them, and the houses grew farther apart. The town was almost behind them, and their speed had considerably lessened, when Margaret gave a scream of horror. Almost instantly Brandon brought the car to a stop and leaped to the ground. Close by one of the big-rimmed wheels lay a huddled little heap of soiled and ragged pink calico; but before Brandon could reach it, the heap stirred, and lifted itself. From beneath a tangled thatch of brown curls looked out two big brown eyes. "I reckon mebbe I felled down," said a cheery voice that yet sounded a little dazed. "I reckon I did." "Good heavens, baby, I reckon you did!" breathed the man in glad relief. "And you may thank your lucky stars 'twas no worse." "T'ank lucky stars. What are lucky stars?" demanded the small girl, interestedly. "Eh? Oh, lucky stars--why, they're--what are lucky stars, Miss Kendall?" Margaret did not answer. She did not seem to hear. With eyes that carried a fascinated terror in their blue depths, she was looking at the dirty little feet and the ragged dress of the child before her. "T'ank lucky stars," murmured the little girl again, putting out a cautious finger and just touching the fat rubber tire of the wheel that had almost crushed out her life. Brandon shuddered involuntarily and drew the child away. "What's your name, little girl?" he asked gently. "Maggie." "How old are you?" "I'm 'most five goin' on six an' I'll be twelve ter-morrer." Brandon smiled. "And where do you live?" he continued. A thin little claw of a finger pointed to an unpainted, shabby-looking cottage across the street. At that moment a shrill voice called: "Maggie, Maggie, what ye doin'? Come here, child." And a tall, gaunt woman appeared in the doorway. Maggie turned slowly; but scarcely had the little bare feet taken one step when the girl in the automobile stirred as if waking from sleep. "Here--quick--little girl, take this," she cried, tearing open the little jeweled purse at her belt, and thrusting all its contents into the small, grimy hands.