But how Worthie would love those collie pups!  They would evolve all sorts of games to play with them.  Picturing herself romping with the boy and dogs, prowling about on the river in Wayne’s new launch, lounging under those great oak trees reading good lazying books, doing everything because she wanted to and nothing because she had to, flirting just enough with Captain Prescott to keep a sense of the reality of life, she lay there gloating over the happy prospect.

And then in that most irresponsible and unsuspecting of moments something whizzed into her consciousness like a bullet—­something shot by her vision pierced the lazy, hazy, carelessly woven web of imagery—­bullet-swift, bullet-true, bullet-terrible—­striking the center clean and strong.  The suddenness and completeness with which she sat up almost sent her from her place.  For from the very instant that her eye rested upon the figure of the girl in pink organdie dress and big hat she knew something was wrong.

And when, within a few feet of the river the girl stopped running, shrank back, covered her face with her hands, then staggered on, she knew that that girl was going to the river to kill herself.

There was one frozen instant of powerlessness.  Then—­what to do?  Call to her?  She would only hurry on.  Run after her?  She could not get there.  It was intuition—­instinct—­took the short cut a benumbed reason could not make; rolling headlong down the bunker, twisting her neck and mercilessly bumping her elbow, Katherine Wayneworth Jones emitted a shriek to raise the very dead themselves.  And then three times a quick, wild “Help—­Help—­Help!” and a less audible prayer that no one else was near.

It reached; the girl stopped, turned, saw the rumpled, lifeless-looking heap of blue linen, turned back toward the river, then once more to the motionless Miss Jones, lying face downward in the sand.  And then the girl who thought life not worth living, delaying her own preference, with rather reluctant feet—­feet clad in pink satin slippers—­turned back to the girl who wanted to live badly enough to call for help.

Through one-half of one eye Katie could see her; she was thinking that there was something fine about a girl who wanted to kill herself putting it off long enough to turn back and help some one who wanted to live.

Miss Jones raised her head just a trifle, showed her face long enough to roll her eyes in a grewsome way she had learned at school, and with a “Help me!” buried her face in the sand and lay there quivering.

The girl knelt down.  “You sick?” she asked, and Katie had the fancy of her voice sounding as though she had not expected to use it any more.

“So ill!” panted Kate, rolling over on her back and holding her heart.  “Here!  My heart!”

The girl looked around uncertainly.  It must be a jar, Katie conceded, being called back to life, expected to fight for the very thing one was running away from.  Her rescuer was evidently considering going to the river for water—­saving water (Katie missed none of those fine points)—­but instead she pulled the patient to a sitting position, supporting her.