she had danced that night; her hair was beautiful as ever—corn-color hair, little disarranged; her face and neck and arms were white and run with red where cuts and scratches showed. There were signs of street soil on her dress but none on her body; some one had washed them away.
"She's not dead!" Jerry cried; then, in a whisper, "How is she?"
Said the ambulance surgeon, "We don't know."
"But she's not dead!"
"No; not yet, anyway."
Jerry's face hovered over hers as he searched hers; then, very softly, he kissed her. "You'll not die!" he whispered to her; then, to the surgeon, "Don't let her die, doctor," he said
"What's happened here?" I asked the officers.
It seemed that she'd been found in the street by a patrolman walking his beat; he thought she was dead so he sent her to the station. Now, having found life in her, the doctor was for taking her to a hospital; but he honestly thought it no use at all.
"What do you know?" the police came back at us.
