In the end, of course, Hal had to come down to practical matters. He sat by the bed and told the old man tactfully that his brother had come to see him and had given him some money. This brother had plenty of money, so Edstrom could be taken to the hospital; or, if he preferred, Mary could stay near here and take care of him. They turned to the landlady, who had been standing in the doorway; she had three boarders in her little home, it seemed, but if Mary could share a bed with the landlady's two children, they might make out. In spite of Hal's protest, Mary accepted this offer; he saw what was in her mind—she would take some of his money, because of old Edstrom's need, but she would take just as little as she possibly could. John Edstrom of course knew nothing of events since his injury, so Hal told him the story briefly—though without mentioning the transformation which had taken place in the miner's buddy. He told about the part Mary had played in the strike; trying to entertain the poor old man, he told how he had seen her mounted upon a snow-white horse, and wearing a robe of white, soft and lustrous, like Joan of Arc, or the leader of a suffrage parade.
“Sure,” said Mary, “he's forever callin' attention to this old dress!”
Hal looked; she was wearing the same blue calico. “There's something mysterious about that dress,” said he. “It's one of those that you read about in fairy-stories, that forever patch themselves, and keep themselves new and starchy. A body only needs one dress like that!”
“Sure, lad,” she answered. “There's no fairies in coal-camps—unless 'tis meself, that washes it at night, and dries it over the stove, and irons it next mornin'.”
She said this with unwavering cheerfulness; but even the old miner lying in pain on the cot could realise the tragedy of a young girl's having only one old dress in her love-hunting season. He looked at the young couple, and saw their evident interest in each other; after the fashion of the old, he was disposed to help along the romance. “She may need some orange blossoms,” he ventured, feebly.
“Go along with ye!” laughed Mary, still unwavering.
“Sure,” put in Hal, with hasty gallantry, “'tis a blossom she is herself! A rose in a mining-camp—and there's a dispute about her in the poetry-books. One tells you to leave her on her stalk, and another says to gather ye rosebuds while ye may, old time is still a-flying!”
“Ye're mixin' me up,” said Mary. “A while back I was ridin' on a white horse.”
“I remember,” said Old Edstrom, “not so far back, y............