For the girl put up her firm, round chin and laughed with a clear pipe
of glee--a laugh to call a laugh as surely as a lark's note will set a
hedge in song; and it called the laugh in George.

He said: "I am thinking the nicest things of you. But have you dropped
from the skies?"

"From a _cab_," she protested.

She turned to the road; back to George in dismay, for the catapult,
its bullet shot, had bolted up the street--was gone from view.

"Oh!--I _was_ in a cab?" she implored.

George said: "It _looked_ like a cab. But a fairy-car, I think."

A pucker of her brows darkened the quick mirth that came to her eyes.
She cried: "Oh, don't joke. She will be killed."

"You were not alone?"

"No--oh, no! What has happened to her?"

"We had better follow."

She corrected his number. "Yes, I had better. Thank you so much for
your help." She took a step; faltered upon it with a little
exclamation of pain; put a white tooth on her lip.

"You have hurt your foot?" George said.