It might have been a storming night, wet and tossed with unrest and cold roof slates, with ragged ravaged leaves like panicked bats, the night trees fall, but it was a quiet night
and thus there seemed no reason for it.

After a morning of innoculating tenement children, an afternoon of surgery and the evening spent locating fresh linen for the new clinic Haggerty was going home. She rode within the confines of the coach not as padded as it should have been but this mattered not to Haggerty whose thoughts were on the morrow, the morning's mothers and the evening's accounts. Open upon her lap was her notebook where she scribbled in a tattered hand her diagnoses and prognoses, reflections on her research, attempts to better her surgical technique.

Adjusting her spectacles she raised her head in time to see the massive tree into which she smashed as the carriage was dashed from the road by a rock.

Some said the driver had fallen asleep while others declared he was drunk.
The end was the same: Haggerty's head was crushed in.