thrust under her shoulders, he tried to raise her head from the floor.
Barton himself, as the most recently returned from the "Dark Valley,"
moved next. Futilely, with a tiny wisp of linen and lace that he found
at the girl's belt, he tried to wipe the blood from her lips.

"Who is she? Who is she?" the conglomerate hum of inquiry rose and
fell like a moan.

Beneath the crimson stain on the little lace handkerchief a trace of
indelible ink showed faintly. Scowlingly Barton bent to decipher it.
"Mother's Little Handkerchief," the marking read. "'Mother's?'" Barton
repeated blankly. Then suddenly full comprehension broke upon him,
and, horridly startled and shocked with a brand-new realization of the
tragedy, he fairly blurted out his astonishing information.

"Why--why, it's the--little Edgarton girl!" he hurled like a bombshell
into the surrounding company.

Instantly, with the mystery once removed, a dozen hysterical people
seemed startled into normal activity. No one knew exactly what to do,
but some ran for water and towels, and some ran for the doctor, and
one young woman with astonishing acumen slipped out of her white silk
petticoat and bound it, blue ribbons and all, as best she could,
around Eve Edgarton's poor little gashed head.

[Illustration: Suddenly full comprehension broke upon him and he
fairly blurted out his astonishing information]

"We must carry her up-stairs!" asserted the hotel proprietor.