inwardly fretted at not arousing irritation.  That a tickle, even a lash of the whip, would delight her.  He sat still, leaning his head back.  He was almost asleep when he heard a rumble of heavy wheels, and looking ahead languidly perceived a wagon laden with household goods of some spring-flitters approaching.  He sat still and watched the great wagon drawn by two lean, white horses, and piled high with the poor household belongings—­miserable wooden chairs and feather beds, and a child’s cradle rocking imminently on the top.  A lank Jerseyman was driving.  By his side on the high seat was his stout wife holding a baby.  The weak wail of the child filled the air.  James looked to make sure that there was room for the team to pass.  He thought there was, and sat idly watching them.  The woman looked at him, made some remark to the man, and then both grinned weakly, recognizing the situation.  The man on the team drove carefully, but a stone on the outer side caused his team to swerve a trifle.  The wheels hit the wheels of the buggy, and the cradle tilted swiftly on to the back of the balky mare, and she bolted.  In all her experience of a long, balky life, a cradle as a means of breaking her spirit had not been encountered.  James had not time to clutch the lines which had fallen to the floor of the buggy before he was thrown out.  He felt the buggy tilting to its fall, he heard a crashing sound and a fierce kicking, and then he knew no more.

When he came to himself he was on the lounge in Doctor Gordon’s office.  Emma was just disappearing with a pitcher in the direction of the kitchen, and he felt something cool on his forehead.  He smelled aromatic salts, and heard a piteous little voice, like the bleat of a wounded lamb, in his ears, and kisses on his cheeks, and a soft hand rubbing his own.  “Oh, darling,” the little voice was saying, “oh, darling, are you much hurt?  Are you?  Please speak to me.  It is Clemency.  Oh, he is dead!  He is dead!” Then came wild sobs, and Emma rushed into the room, and he heard her say, “Here, put this ice on his head, quick!”

James was still so faint that he could only gasp weakly.  And he could open his eyes to nothing but darkness and a marvellous spinning and whir as of shadows in a wind.

“He’s comin’ to,” said Emma.  Her voice sounded as if she felt moved.  “Don’t take on so, Miss Clemency,” she said; “he ain’t dead.”

Again James felt the soft kisses and tears on his face, and again came the poor little voice, “Oh, darling, please listen, please don’t do so.  I will marry you.  I will.  I know you did just right.  I read one of Uncle Tom’s books this morning, and I found out what awful suffering she might have had hours longer.  You did right.  I will marry you.  I will never think of it again.  Please don’t look so.  Are you dreadfully hurt?  Oh, when they came bringing you in I thought you were killed!  There is a great bruise on your head.  Does it hurt much?  You do feel better, don’t you?  Oh, Emma, if Uncle Tom would only come.  Can’t you hear me, dear?  I will marry you.  I take it all back.  I will marry you!  I will marry you whenever you wish.  Oh, please look at me!  Please speak to me!  Oh, Emma, there is Uncle Tom.  I am so glad.”