His present streak of luck could not last, he knew. Some fellow would come along soon with a larger, finer car, or perhaps with a saddle-horse, or a coach and four--at any rate with something more suitable than he, Archie, had to offer. But meanwhile there was now; and if she was never allowed to suspect the inner state of his feelings, the glorious now might be prolonged indefinitely. Archibald was nothing if not an opportunist. So he was very careful. And Joan was very careful. No more hair blew into eyes. They remained matter-of-fact and chummy and impersonal, even when they picknicked together under a twilight sky, one on either side of a spread napkin, as if they had set up housekeeping together in the wilderness--a situation which, as people know who are far less wise than Effie May, is usually provocative of results. Nothing occurred, however: until the day that marked the passing of Lizzie. They were on their way home in the gray of a late evening, Archibald driving, with half an eye on the whiteness of certain hands as they deftly stowed away the remains of tea in the picnic-box. Which may have been the reason that when he came to a railroad crossing, he was less careful than usual. It was a switching track on which a freight train stood, heavily panting. Lizzie safely negotiated this, and was going on to a second track beyond, when something jerked Archie's eyes around in time to gaze full into the headlight of an approaching passenger train. He had not enough speed on to cross the track ahead of it. He had too much to stop where he was. "Gee!" he grunted; and with a powerful wrench of the wheel, turned into the track just ahead of the rushing engine. Joan meant to scream, but forgot in sheer excitement. Behind sounded a frantic grinding of brakes, a hiss of steam, and the locomotive let out shriek after shriek. "Oh, I hear you!" muttered Archie. "I'll get out of your way the minute I can, old top! None too soon to suit yours truly." He stared into his side-mirror. Down the ties pounded willing Lizzie at thirty, forty, fifty--with a pop a tire blew out. "Get that door open," he shouted at Joan, above the hissing steam. "Don't jump till I say the word. Trying to make a flat place. You hear?" Joan nodded. There were deep gullies on either side. She glanced over her shoulder. The engine seemed almost on top of them--But Archie kept his eye on his mirror. "Can't make it," he said suddenly. "All ready? Now! Jump!" To the after mortification of her entire life, Joan could not move. She understood the necessity, her head was quite clear and calm, but her limbs refused her bidding. The next instant he had seized her, tossed her out like a bundle, she was falling--falling.... There came a crash, the splintering of glass and iron. * * * * * Long after she was able to, Joan dared not open her eyes. She fought back the coming of consciousness, tried not to think.