Her little daughter, who
was with her, was badly hurt, and when the train
had stopped the crew lifted the dead woman and
the injured child on board, to take them to the next
station. As I was the only doctor among the pas-
sengers, the child was turned over to me. I made up
a bed on the seats and put the little patient there,
but no woman in the car was able to assist me. The
tragedy had made them hysterical, and on every
side they were weeping and nerveless. The men were
willing but inefficient, with the exception of one un-
couth woodsman whose trousers were tucked into
his boots and whose hands were phenomenally big
and awkward. But they were also very gentle, as
I realized when he began to help me. I knew at
once that he was the man I needed, notwithstanding
his unkempt hair, his general ungainliness, the
hat he wore on the back of his head, and the pink
carnation in his buttonhole, which, by its very in-
congruity, added the final accent to his unprepossess-
ing appearance. Together we worked over the child,
making it as comfortable as we could. It was hard-
ly necessary to tell my aide what I wanted done;
he seemed to know and even to anticipate my efforts.
When we reached the next station the dead woman
was taken out and laid on the platform, and a nurse
and doctor who had been telegraphed for were wait-
ing to care for the little girl. She was conscious by
this time, and with the most exquisite gentleness my
rustic Bayard lifted her in his arms to carry her off
the train.
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