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
zig-zagged suddenly across her face. "I won't have him dead! I won't! I
_won't_!" she screamed out stormily.

In the amazing silence that ensued the White Linen Nurse gathered her
trembling knees up into the circle of her arms and sat there staring at
the Senior Surgeon's prostrate body, and rocking herself feebly to and
fro in a futile effort to collect her scattered senses.

"Oh, if some one would only tell me what to do,--I know I could do it!
Oh, I know I could do it! If some one would only tell me what to do!"
she kept repeating helplessly.

Cautiously the Little Girl crept forward on her hands and knees to the
edge of the car and peered speculatively through the great yellow
wheel-spokes. "Father!" she faltered in almost inaudible gentleness.