“Is he dead, Miss?”

“No.  Listen to him breathe!  He’s ill.  Can’t you hear the dreadful sounds he makes?  Try to lift him, if you can.  He’s freezing here!”

“I’m thinkin’ he’s just drunk an’ snorin,’ Miss.”

“What of it?  He’s freezing, too.  Carry him to the carl”

Wayland leaned down, put both big arms under the shoulders of the unconscious man, and dragged him, upright, holding him by main strength.

“He’s drunk, all right, Miss,” the chauffeur remarked with a sniff of disgust.

That he had been drinking was evident enough to Miss Erith now.  She picked up his hat; a straggling yellow light from the ice-bound lamps fell on McKay’s battered features.

“Get him into the car,” she said, “he’ll die out here in this cold.”

The big chauffeur half-carried, half-dragged the inanimate man to the car and lifted him in.  Miss Erith followed.

“The Samaritan Hospital—­that’s the nearest,” she said hastily.  “Drive as fast as you can, Wayland.”

McKay had slid to the floor of the coupe; Miss Erith turned on the ceiling light, drew the fur robe around him, and lifted his head to her knees, holding it there supported between her gloved hands.

The light fell full on his bruised visage, on the crisp brown hair dusted with snow, which lay so lightly on his temples, making him seem very frail and boyish in his deathly pallor.

His breathing grew heavier, more laboured; the coupe reeked with the stench of alcohol; and Miss Erith, feeling almost faint, opened the window a little way, then wrapped the young man’s head in the skirt of her fur coat and covered his icy hands with her own.

The ambulance entrance to the Samaritan Hospital was dimly illuminated.  Wayland, turning in from Park Avenue, sounded his horn, then scrambled down from the box as an orderly and a watchman appeared under the vaulted doorway.  And in a few moments the emergency case had passed out of Miss Erith’s jurisdiction.

But as her car turned homeward, upon her youthful mind was stamped the image of a pale, bruised face—­of a boyish head reversed upon her knees—­of crisp, light-brown hair dusted with particles of snow.

Within the girl’s breast something deep was stirring—­something unfamiliar—­not pain—­not pity—­yet resembling both, perhaps.  She had no other standard of comparison.

After she reached home she called up the Samaritan Hospital for information, and learned that the man was suffering from the effects of alcohol and chloral—­the latter probably an overdose self-administered—­because he had not been robbed.  Miss Erith also learned that there were five hundred dollars in new United States banknotes in his pockets, some English sovereigns, a number of Dutch and Danish silver pieces, and a new cheque-book on the Schuyler National Bank, in which was written what might be his name.

“Will he live?” inquired Miss Erith, solicitous, as are people concerning the fate of anything they have helped to rescue.