“Oh—­Mother!” The little wail came from Derry.  Rachael, her heart turned to ice, slowed down—­stopped and leaned into the half darkness in the back of the car.  The child’s lovely eyes were opened.  Rachael could barely see his white face.

“My darling!” she said.

“Will you not—­bump me so, Mother?” the little boy whispered.

“I will try not to, my heart!” Rachael, wild with terror, looked to Mary’s face.  Was he dying, now and here?

“Oh Moth—­it hurts so!”

“Does it, my darling?”

He drowsed again.  Rachael turned back to her wheel.  They must go more slowly now, at any cost.

The road was terrible, in parts, after the hours of heavy rain, it seemed almost impassable.  Rachael pushed on.  Presently they were back in the main road again, and could make better time.  Of the hundred miles only fifty remained.  But that meant nothing now.  How much time had she lost in that frightful bypath?  Rachael’s face was dripping with rain, rain had trickled under her clothing at neck and wrists.  Through her raincoat the breast of her gown was soaking, and her feet ached with the strain of controlling the heavy car.  Water came in long runnels through the wind-shield, and struck her knees; she had turned her dress back, her thin silk petticoat was soaked, and the muscles of knees and ankles were cold and sore.  But she felt these things not at all.  Her eyes burned ahead, into the darkness, she heard nothing but the occasional fluttering moan from Derry; she thought nothing but that she might be too late—­too late—­too late!

At the first town of any size she stopped, a telegram to George taking shape in her mind.  But the wires here were down, as they had been farther down the Island.  The rain was thinning, but the wind was rising every second, and as she rushed on she saw that in many places the lights on the road were out; all the Island lay battered and bruised under the storm.

Slowly as they seemed to creep, yet the miles were going by.  Freeport—­Lynbrook—­Jamaica—­like a woman in a dream she reached the bridge and a moment later looked down upon the long belt of lights winking in the rain that was New York.

And here, on the very apex of the bridge, came the most heart-rending moment of the run, for the little boy began to cough, and for two or three frightful minutes the women hung over him, speechless with terror, and knowing that at any second the exhausted little body might succumb to the strain.  Blindly, as with a long, choked cry he sank back again, Rachael went back to her wheel.  Third Avenue—­Fifth Avenue—­Forty-second Street tore by; they were running straight down toward Washington Arch as the clocks everywhere struck midnight.  The wide street was deserted in the rain, it shone like a mirror, reflecting long pendants of light.

They were turning the corner; she was out of the car, and had glanced at the familiar old house.  Wet, exhausted, fired by a passion that made her feel curiously light and sure, Rachael put her arms about her child, and carried him up the steps.  Mary had preceded her, the door was opened; a dazed and frightened maid was looking at her.