Again Mary Jane’s thoughts had been swift. She recalled the fact that “when Joe Stebbins had the fever and talked crazy-like, the doctor said we must answer just as if ’twas the way he said. ’Twould have made him worse to argue him different,” and with this reflection made her instant response.  
Now Bonny-Gay had either been less ill than they fancied, or the crisis had been reached; for at that cheerful reply she opened her blue eyes and looked into the eager face so near them. For a brief time she said no more, seeming to seek for some explanation of those troubled dreams from the smile of her new friend; then she stretched out her hand and Mary Jane caught it rapturously between her own palms.
 
“You—you look nice in my hat. But I thought—I thought—I was at your park. Yet it’s home, isn’t it, after all. How dark it is, and how tired I am. I guess I’ll go to sleep a few minutes. Though I’m very pleased to see you, Mary Jane.”
 
Through the hearts of all in the room shot a thrill of thankfulness, yet nobody moved as the injured child dropped at once into a quiet sleep which meant, the doctors knew, the saving of her life and reason.
 
Mrs. McClure had kept up bravely, till that moment, but now her strength was leaving her in the shock of her sudden relief and joy.
 
“Tell the girl not to move nor draw her hand away—till Bonny herself releases it;” she whispered, as an attendant led her noiselessly out of the .
 
She did not know how long and difficult a task she had set the unwelcome visitor; for while she herself sank into a much needed rest the sick child still slept that deep, which was to restore her to health.
 
The hours passed. The doctors went silently away. One nurse took up a position near the bed and remained almost as motionless as the chair she occupied. A gray-haired man appeared at the , took one long, delighted look at the small figure on the cot, barely seeing the other child beside it, and went away again. This was the anxious father and he moved with the lightness of one from whom an intolerable burden has been removed.
 
Meanwhile, a second nurse took observation now and then of Mary Jane. The position into which the cripple had sprung, in her eager clasp of Bonny-Gay’s hand, was a trying one. Half- forward, with no support for any portion of her body save that sidewise seat upon the foot of the cot, it was that muscles should and limbs ache, even in a stronger frame than Mary Jane’s. Besides that, she was very hungry, almost faint. Her slight breakfast had been taken very early, and since then she had not tasted any food, though it was now midafternoon. Presently, she felt her head grow dizzy. Bonny-Gay’s face upon the pillow appeared to be strangely contorted and the clasp of the small hand within her own to become vise-like and icy in its grip. She began to suffer tortures, all over, everywhere. Even her useless legs were prickling and “going to sleep,” like any overtaxed limb. She feared she would fall forward, in spite of all her will, and that might mean—death to Bonny-Gay! She knew, of her own intuition, that she must not move, even without the whispered command of Mrs. McClure, and in her heart she began to say a little prayer for strength to hold herself steady till her task was at an end.
 
Then, all at once, she felt that the resting against her side were being noiselessly lifted away. Somebody, who moved as if on air, was putting a rolled up pillow under her own tired chest; another at her side—her back; and beneath the heavy feet a great soft cushion that was like her own mother’s lap, for restfulness.
 
She turned her head and looked up into the kind face of the trained nurse and smiled her most grateful smile, for she dared not speak. The white-capped woman smiled back and silently held forward a plate on which was some carefully cut up food. Then she forked a and held it to Mary Jane’s lips, which opened and closed upon it with an eagerness that was almost greedy, so was she.
 
“How queer it is!” thought the little girl, “that anybody should bother that way about just me!” then swallowed another mouthful of the delicious chicken. A bit of roll followed the chicken, and after that a glass of milk. With every portion so administered, Mary Jane’s and dizziness disappeared till, by the time the nurse had fed her all that the plate contained, she felt so rested and refreshed she fancied that she could have sat on thus forever, if Bonny-Gay had so needed.
 
“Oh! how good I feel!”
 
Bonny-Gay was awake at last, and, of her own accord, withdrew her hand from Mary Jane’s clasp.
 
“Why—why, is that you, Mary Jane? Why doesn’t somebody make it light in here? How came you—Oh! I remember. You came to see me and I went to sleep. I don’t know what made me do that. Wasn’t very polite, was it? Now, I’ll get up and be dressed and then we’ll play something.”
 
But as she tried to rise she sank back in surprise.
 
“That’s queer. There’s something the matter with me. One of my legs feels—it doesn’t feel at all. Seems as if it was a marble leg, like ‘Father George’s.’ Whatever me?”
 
it if they had had time.
 
“I guess it’s broken. That’s all.”
 
“Broken! My leg? What do you mean?”
 
“Oh! I forgot. You haven’t been real awake since it happened. Max—”
 
“Child!” interposed the nurse who had fed her.
 
“Oh! mustn’t I tell?”
 
The two white-capped women exchanged glances. After all, their patient would have to learn about her own condition; and children had often ways of their own which proved wiser than grown folks thought.
 
“Ye-s, you may tell.”
 
“You were thrown out the carriage. Don’t you remember? Max had run away to find you, and when he did, he didn’t stop to think of anything else. He just jumped right into the carriage, where you and the Gray Gentleman and the baby and I were all riding splendid. That made the horses afraid and they acted bad. You got tumbled out and broke your leg. That’s all.”
 
“That’s—all! Why, Mary Jane! You say it as if—as if—you didn’t care!”
 
Bonny-Gay began to cry, softly.
 
“Yes I did say that’s all, because that isn’t much. It’s a good job it wasn’t your head. A broken leg gets well quick; quicker’n ever if it’s only a little leg like yours. If it was your mother’s now, or your father’s, you might worry. But, my sake! I wouldn’t mind a little thing like that if I were you. To lie in this heavenly room, with all the pictures and pretty things, and folks to wait on you every minute, why—I’d think I was the best off little girl in the world if I were you.”
 
“But I can’t walk on it, nobody knows when. Nor go out-doors, nor—nor—I think you’re a mean girl, Mary Jane Bump!”
 
The cripple was too astonished to reply. She had pushed herself from her hard position upon the cot’s foot to a chair which the nurse had placed for her, and was leaning back in it with content. In all her little life she had never sat upon anything so and restful. How could any child mind anything, who was as fortunate as the daughter of such a home? , also, at finding that her new friend was not wholly the “angel” she had hitherto supposed her to be, kept her silent. But she was rather glad to find this out. It made the other girl seem nearer to her own level of imperfection, and she speedily reflected that sick people were often cross, yet didn’t mean to be so.
 
Bonny-Gay herself swiftly her hard speech and looking around the room, inquired:
 
“Did I sleep very long?”
 
“Yes, dear, a long time. We are all so glad of that,” answered the nurse, holding a spoon to the patient’s lips, just as she had done to Mary Jane’s, who laughed exclaiming:
 
“That was the funniest thing! When I was holding your hand, Bonny-Gay, she fed me just that way, too! Me! Mary Jane Bump! Chicken, and biscuit and milk! ’Twas prime, I tell you!”
 
“Fed you? Why?”
 
“’Cause I was holding your hand and couldn’t feed myself. I s’pose she thought, maybe, I was hungry. I was, too.”
 
“Did you hold it all the time I was asleep, Mary Jane?”
 
“Yes. Course. You wasn’t to be waked up till you did it yourself.”
 
A moment’s silence; then said Bonny-Gay:
 
“I am too ashamed of myself to look at you. What must you think of me, Mary Jane?”
 
“I think I love you, dearly.”
 
“I don’t see how you can, but I’m glad of it. Where is my mother, nurse?”
 
Mrs. McClure bent over the cot and kissed her daughter, murmuring tender words of love and delight; and for a space neither remembered Mary Jane.
 
However, she had just remembered her own mother and the fact that she had been long from home. Also, that that home lay at the end of a long, strange and distracting journey, for one so ignorant of travel as she, and that through the window she could see that it was already . She waited a bit, for a chance to bid good-night to Bonny-Gay and to say how glad she was that she was better, and to thank the nurse for being so kind to herself. But nobody seemed to have any thought for her just then.
 
The gray-haired father had come into the room and bent beside his wife over the cot where lay their one darling child; and, seeing the parents thus occupied with their own feelings, both nurses had considerately turned their backs upon the scene and were busying themselves in arranging the chamber for the night’s watch.
 
“I dare not wait a minute longer! I should be afraid, I think, to get in the car alone at night. I was hardly ever out after dark. I’d like to make my manners pretty, as mother said, but I can’t wait.”
 
Moved by the same which had made the nurses turn their backs upon the group at the bedside, Mary Jane silently picked up her crutches and away. Finding the way out was easier, even, than finding it in. The halls were now all lighted by wonderful lamps overhead and the same stately footman stood just within the outer entrance.
 
“However did such a creature as this get in and I not see her?” he wondered, as the little hunchback came swiftly toward him. “Well, better out than in, that’s sure. No knowing what harm it would do the little missy if she caught sight of an object like that!”
 
Which shows how little the people who live in one house may understand of each other’s ideas; and explains the rapidity with which he showed Mary Jane through the door and closed it upon her.
 
After the lighted hallway the outside world seemed darker than ever, even though the days were yet long and twilight lingered. But to-night the sky was clouded and a storm . Already in the west there were flashes of lightning, and though, in ordinary, Mary Jane delighted in an electric storm, just then it made her think the more of home and its security.
 
“Besides, if I should get my fresh clean dress all wet, that would make work for mother. I’m glad I forgot that hat, though. That’ll have to be dry, anyway, now; and maybe after all, when Bonny-Gay gets well she may want it herself. It was her mother gave it to me, not her. Now which way—I guess this. Oh! I know! I’ll find that gardener, Mr. Weems, and he’s so nice and kind he’ll show me the way to go. Maybe, after all, there is another car goes nearer to street than that one I took first and—There’s a man. It might be him. I’ll run and see.”
 
But when she had clicked across the path to where the man stood he had already begun to move away, and she saw that he was not at all like the gardener. So she paused, , trying to recall by which of the several avenues leading from it she had entered the Place.
 
There were people hurrying homeward in each direction, and a few smart equipages were whirling past; but nobody paused to glance at her, save with that half-shudder of to which she was quite accustomed when she met strangers, and that had rarely wounded her feelings as it did just then and there.
 
“Well, I can’t help that. And I don’t mind it for myself, not now at all, since I know about poor father. He’s the one feels worst for it. And that I shall tell him the very minute I see him. So let them look and turn away, if they wish. Looks don’t hurt, really, and oh! dear! if I only could remember the street I ought to take. Charles, of course. I know that and there it is; but whether to go to that side or this—”
 
In the midst of her perplexity the electric current was turned on and the Place was suddenly and noiselessly flooded with a light as of day. Courage came back and after another hasty of the streets, to discover some that she could recall, she saw the monument and the lion, and ran toward them as if they had been old friends.
 
“Bonny-Gay loves them, and so does the Gray Gentleman, and they do look as quiet and peaceful as can be. I stopped there, I know, and maybe I’ll think it out better there.”
 
Yet even in that place Mary Jane could gain no new ideas as to her course, nor was anybody near to whom she could apply.
 
The gardener had long since gone home for the night, and in desperation, Mary Jane to appeal to the very first person who came by. This proved to be a young man, with a and eyeglasses; and he appeared to be extremely busy. The little girl thought he must also be one of the “aristocratics” of whom her father so contemptuously, because when she had asked him to “please tell me the way to Dingy street?” he had scarcely glanced at her but had replied: “Never heard of such a place.”
 
“Hmm. Too bad. Father says they don’t any of them know very much, and I’m sorry. Don’t know where Dingy street is, indeed! when I know it myself, even a little girl like me and have lived there always. I mean ever since I was a baby and we left the country. That, mother says, was the mistake we made. In the country father didn’t drink and lose his work. Well, we’ll go again, some day, when I get big and strong, and can help more with the wash. We could earn a lot, mother and me together, if I was big.”
 
She lost herself in her day dreams for a little and awoke from them with a start, to find the twilight altered to real night, while the electric gleams from the lamps overhead were brighter than ever and their shadows more like ink upon the pavement. Mary Jane had never seen such brilliancy as this, and again she forgot herself in studying her surroundings and enjoying the vivid green of the grass and .
 
A certain of flowers, glowing in the radiance, attracted her especially and she felt that she must put her face down on them, to smell them, before she lost sight of them forever.
 
“For I don’t s’pose I’ll ever come this way again. I couldn’t expect it. Mother couldn’t spare the money even if she could me and—even if I ever get back to her again!” she concluded, with a frightened sigh. But the beautiful blossoms her, and in her own down town park, which had been thrown open to whoever of the poor would enjoy them, there were few “Keep off” signs and the few quite disregarded. This she had explained to Bonny-Gay; and what was true of one park in the city should be true of all.
 
So she hopped nimbly over the lawn to where the flowers gleamed and white and wonderful, and bending above them thrust her face deep down into their loveliness. Oh! how sweet they were! and so crisp and almost in their touch upon her cheek.
 
“Dear flowers! I wouldn’t hurt you, you know that, don’t you! I wouldn’t break a single one of you, no, not for anything. Seems like you’d feel it if your stems were broken, poor things. But I’ll not harm you. No, indeedy. Only I wish—I wish I could just take one tiny, tiny piece home to mother. But I wouldn’t break you, even for her!”
 
“Well, I guess you’d better not! What are you doing here? How dare you come on this grass? Can’t you read the signs?”
 
Mary Jane looked up, and was immediately terrified. It was a policeman who held her arm, and all the wild stories she had heard of arrests and flashed into her mind.
 
In Dingy street there was, also, a policeman; but a friendly soul whom all the children loved, and whose own home was close to theirs. It was he who had saved many a baby’s life, from careless passing vehicles, when busy mothers had not the time to watch them as they should; and his blue uniform represented to Mary Jane’s mind an all-powerful , to whom appeal was never made in vain.
 
But this six-foot officer, with his glitter and dignity, his harsh voice and vise-like clutch—this was the of law .
 
“Oh! what have I done! I didn’t mean it—I didn’t—” the frightened child, and herself loose swung away upon her crutches, faster even than the officer could have pursued her, even if he had been so minded.
 
He did not even attempt to follow her, but watched her flight, with a of amusement.
 
“Scared her well, that time, the little . Well, it’s right a lesson was given ’em. If every child who wanted to smell the bushes was let, what would our parks look like!”
 
“Like bits of Paradise, as they should;” answered a voice behind him, so suddenly that the policeman wheeled about to find himself face to face with a resident of the Place himself.
 
As for Mary Jane she neither saw whither she fled nor scarcely breathed before she had collided with a swiftly advancing figure, and found both herself and it thrown down. Captured after all! Her eyes closed with a snap, as there seemed to rise before them the vision of a station house, filled with frowning policemen, and herself in the midst, a helpless prisoner.