“Here is a live child and a dead baby wedged in between these beams.  Are you much hurt, little one?”

“Yes, I believe I am.  Please take this log off my feet.”

It was a difficult matter, but at length strong arms raised her, carried her some distance from the ruins, and placed her on the grass, where several other persons were writhing and groaning.  The collision which precipitated the train from trestle-work over a deep ravine, had occurred near a village station, and two physicians were busily engaged in examining the wounded.  The sun had risen, and shone full on Edna’s pale, suffering face, when one of the surgeons, with a countenance that indexed earnest sympathy and compassion, came to investigate the extent of her injuries, and sat down on the grass beside her.  Very tenderly he handled her, and after a few moments said gently: 

“I am obliged to hurt you a little, my child, for your shoulder is dislocated, and some of the bones are broken in your feet; but I will be as tender as possible.  Here, Lennox! help me.”

The pain was so intense that she fainted, and after a short time, when she recovered her consciousness, her feet and ankles were tightly bandaged, and the doctor was chafing her hands and bathing her face with some powerful extract.  Smoothing back her hair, he said: 

“Were your parents on the cars?  Do you know whether they are hurt?”

“They both died when I was a baby.”

“Who was with you?”

“Nobody but Grip—­my dog.”

“Had you no relatives or friends on the train?”

“I have none.  I am all alone in the world.”

“Where did you come from?”

“Chattanooga.”

“Where were you going?”

“My grandpa died, and as I had nobody to take care of me, I was going to Columbus to work in the cotton factory.”

“Humph!  Much work you will do for many a long day.”

He stroked his grayish beard, and mused a moment, and Edna said timidly: 

“If you please, sir, I would like to know if my dog is hurt?”

The physician smiled, and looked round inquiringly.

“Has any one seen a dog that was on the train?”

One of the brakemen, a stout Irishman, took his pipe from his mouth, and answered: 

“Aye, aye, sir! and as vicious a brute as ever I set eyes on.  Both his hind legs were smashed—­dragged so—­and I tapped him on the head with an axe to put him out of his misery.  Yonder he now lies on the track.”

Edna put her hand over her eyes, and turned her face down on the grass to hide tears that would not be driven back.  Here the surgeon was called away, and for a half hour the child lay there, wondering what would become of her, in her present crippled and helpless condition, and questioning in her heart why God did not take her instead of that dimpled darling, whose parents were now weeping so bitterly for the untimely death that mowed their blossom ere its petals were expanded.  The chilling belief was fast gaining ground that God had cursed and forsaken her; that misfortune and bereavement would dog her steps through life; and a hard, bitter expression settled about her mouth, and looked out gloomily from the sad eyes.  Her painful reverie was interrupted by the cheery voice of Dr. Rodney, who came back, accompanied by an elegantly-dressed middle-aged lady.