been killed. No thanks to the rash young driver that they had not been.
It would be many a day before Ted Holiday would forget that nightmare of
dread and remorse which took possession of him as he pulled himself to
his feet and went over to where the girl's motionless form lay on the
grass, her face dead white, the blood flowing from her forehead.

Never had he been so thankful for anything in his life as he was when he
saw her bright eyes snap open, and heard her unsteady little giggle as
she murmured, "My, but I thought I was dead, didn't you?"

Game to her fingertips she had been. Ted acknowledged that, even now that
the glamour had worn off. Never once had she whimpered over her injuries,
never hurled a single word of blame at him for the misadventure that had
come within a hair's breadth of being the last for them both.

"It wasn't a bit more your fault than mine," she had waived aside his
apologies. "And it was great while it lasted. I wouldn't have missed it
for anything, though I'm glad I'm not dead before I've had a chance to
really live. All I ask is that you won't tell a soul I was out with you.
Grandpa would think I was headed straight for purgatory if he knew."

"I won't," Ted had promised glibly enough, and had kept his promise even
at the cost of lying to his uncle, a memory which hurt like the
toothache even now.

But looking at the girl now in her tawdry, inappropriate garb he
suffered a revulsion of feeling. What he had admired in her as good sport
quality seemed cheap now, his own conduct even cheaper. His reaction
against himself was fully as poignant as his reaction against her. He was
suddenly ashamed of his joy ride, ashamed that he had ever wished or