"I feel as if I were a part of the fourteenth century," said Miss
Sherman. "Surely Fra Angelico might be one of those passing us."

"Only he would have worn a white gown instead of a brown one," replied
Mrs. Douglas, smiling. "You know he was a Dominican monk, not
Franciscan."

"But look on the other side of the road," cried Malcom, "and hear the
buzzing of the wires! an electric tramway! Here meet the fourteenth and
the nineteenth centuries!"

In a minute it all had happened. Just how, no one knew. An agonized
scream from the little maid, Anita, who was walking behind them, a
momentary sight of the tiny, brown-faced Italian boy, her brother, right
in the pathway of the swinging car as it rounded the curve--Malcom's
spring--and then the boy and himself lying out on the roadside against
the wall.

The vigorous crying of the little boy as he rushed into his sister's
arms, evinced his safety, but there was a quiet about Malcom that was
terrifying.

He had succeeded in throwing the child beyond the reach of the car, but
had himself been struck by it, and consciousness was gone.

The little group, so happy a moment before, now hung over him in silent
fear and agony. Howard hastened back to get the carriage, and returned
to find Malcom slowly struggling to awaken, but when moved, he again
fainted; and so, lying in his uncle's arms, with his pale mother and
tearful Margery sitting in front, and the others, frightened and