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She was only in time to see a flash of silver and ebony and a streak of brown dart before her vision and swim down the hill like a bird. Lorania was still in the saddle, pedalling from sheer force of habit, and clinging to the handle-bars. Below the hill was a stone wall, and farther was the creek. There was a narrow opening in the wall where the cattle went down to drink; if she could steer through that she would have nothing worse than soft water and mud; but there was not one chance in a thousand that she could pass that narrow space. Mrs. Winslow, horror-stricken, watched the rescuer, who evidently was cutting across to catch the bicycle.

“He’s riding out of sight!” thought Shuey, in the rear. He himself did not slacken his speed, although he could not be in time for the catastrophe. Suddenly he stiffened; Winslow was close to the runaway wheel.

“Grab her!” yelled Shuey. “Grab her by the belt! Oh, Lord! “

The exclamation exploded like the groan of a shell. For while Winslow’s bicycling was all that could be wished, and he flung himself in the path of the on-coming wheel with marvelous celerity and precision, he had not the power to withstand the never yet revealed number of pounds carried by Miss Lorania, impelled by the rapid descent and gathering momentum at every whirl. They met; he caught her; but instantly he was rolling down the steep incline and she was doubled up on the grass. He crashed sickeningly against the stone wall; she lay stunned and still on the sod; and their friends, with beating hearts, slid down to them. Mrs. Winslow was on the brow of the hill. She blesses Shuey to this day for the shout he sent up, “Nobody killed, and I guess no bones broken.”

* * * * *

When Margaret went home that evening, having seen her friend safely in bed, not much the worse for her fall, she was told that Cardigan wished to see her. Shuey produced something from his pocket, saying: “I picked this up on the hill, ma’am, after the accident. It maybe belongs to him, or it maybe belongs to her; I’m thinking the safest way is to just give it to you.” He handed Mrs. Ellis a tiny gold-framed miniature of Lorania in a red leather case.

* * * * *

The morning was a sparkling June morning, dewy and fragrant, and the sunlight burnished the handles and pedals of the friends’ bicycles standing on the piazza unheeded. It was the hour for morning practice, but Miss Hopkins slept in her chamber, and Mrs. Ellis sat in the little parlor adjoining, and thought.

She did not look surprised at the maid’s announcement that Mrs. Winslow begged to see her for a few moments. Mrs. Winslow was pale. She was a good sketch of discomfort on the very edge of her chair, clad in the black silk which she wore Sundays, her head crowned with her bonnet of state, and her hands stiff in a pair of new gloves.

“I hope you’ll excuse me not sending up a card,” she began. “Cyril got me some going on a year ago, and I thought I could lay my hand right on ’em, but I’m so nervous this morning I hunted all over, and they wasn’t anywhere. I won’t keep you. I jest wanted to ask if you picked up anything–a little red Russia-leather case–“

“Was it a miniature–a miniature of my friend Miss Hopkins?”

“I thought it all over, and I came to explain. You no doubt think it strange; and I can assure you that my son never let any human being look at that picture. I never knew about it myself till it was lost and he got up out of his bed–he ain’t hardly able to walk–and staggered over here to look for it, and I followed him; and so he had to tell me. He had it painted from a picture that came out in the papers. He felt it was an awful liberty. But–you don’t know how my boy feels, Mrs. Ellis; he has worshipped that woman for years. He ain’t never had a thought of anybody but her since they was children in school; and yet’s he’s been so modest and so shy of pushing himself forward that he didn’t do a thing until I put him on to help you with this bicycle.”