There was neither drug store nor doctor’s office near, and the Gray Gentleman’s instant decision was to carry Bonny-Gay to Mrs. Bump’s house. Strong man though he was he felt almost faint with anxiety as he sprang from the carriage and without losing an instant of time lifted out Mary Jane and the baby. Then he dropped her beside her and ran to the child in the roadway.  
Five minutes later, Bonny-Gay was lying on Mrs. Bump’s bed, and the Gray Gentleman had gone away in pursuit of aid, leaving a last injunction behind him as he disappeared:
 
“Do everything you can for her, I beg, but keep useless people out.”
 
Thus it was that, though curious faces peered in at the window, no person save Mrs. Stebbins crossed the threshold of their neighbor’s house, and the two women were left unhindered to minister to the injured child as best they knew how. They were not able, indeed, to restore the little girl to consciousness; but they had cleared the soil of the street from her face and clothing and had placed the figure in an easy , long before there was heard the and dash of another approaching vehicle, and a doctor’s phaeton drew up at the door.
 
The surgeon’s examination showed that one of the child’s legs was broken but this did not trouble him half so much as her continued unconsciousness. But he worked to restore her and to prepare the injured limb for removal to her own home.
 
From a low seat in the corner and hugging the baby tight, to keep him quiet, Mary Jane watched the little sufferer upon her mother’s bed, with wide, dry eyes and heaving breast.
 
“Oh! if I could only take it for her!” she thought, helplessly. “It wouldn’t have mattered to anybody like me, ’cause I’m all anyhow; but her! She was that straight and beautiful—my sake! It mustn’t be—it mustn’t! And she didn’t mind. She let me wear her hat, me. Well, that didn’t get hurt, any way. It just tumbled off all safe. I had to wear it home, else I couldn’t have dragged the baby, and I don’t know not a thing whatever became of his . Never mind that, though. If she only would open her eyes, just once, just once!”
 
But they had not opened even when, a half-hour later, another carriage paused before the Bumps’ , and a tall, pale lady , trembling so that she had almost to be carried by the Gray Gentleman who supported her.
 
This was Mrs. McClure and she had just been stepping into her own vehicle for a morning’s shopping when he reached her door, bringing his unhappy message. So there was no time lost in securing a vehicle and the mother was soon at her child’s bedside. At any other hour she might have shrunk from entering so poor a place but at that moment she had, for once, forgotten her own high station and thought only of her darling.
 
One glimpse of the lovely face, so still and unresponsive, the mother’s last of strength and she would have fallen where she stood, had not Mrs. Bump slipped an arm about her and motioned Mrs. Stebbins to bring the one sound chair the room could boast. The doctor held a glass of water to her lips and the faintness passed.
 
“Is—she—alive?”
 
“Yes. She is still alive,” answered the physician, gravely, and Mrs. McClure turned faint again.
 
“Of course, she’s alive, lady; and what’s more it won’t be long, I reckon, before she’ll be asking a lot of questions all about what’s happened her. Oh! yes indeed. I’ve seen ’em a sight worst than she is, and up and around again as lively as crickets. Why, there’s my Mary Jane—”
 
But the cripple held up a warning finger and Mrs. Bump ceased speaking. Though not her helpful ministrations; for with a whisk to the stove she had seized a coarse brown teapot and poured from it a hot into a cup that had no handle, indeed, yet could serve as well as another to refresh an creature.
 
“Here, honey, just this. Strong, I know, and not the finest, but ’twill set you up, quick. I know. There, there.”
 
Moved by the same instinct which had made Bonny-Gay accept her crust dinner, Mrs. McClure drank the scalding liquid and did, indeed, revive under it. Then the doctor and the Gray Gentleman lifted the injured child and placed her gently upon the carriage seat.
 
Seeing which, the mother hastily rose and followed, supported still, though unnoticed on her part, by the strong arms of the other mother whose sympathetic tears were now silently flowing; even while her cheery voice , much to the surgeon’s disgust:
 
“Never you fear, dear lady. She’ll be as right as a trivet. Aye, indeed; she’ll be talking to you before you get to your own house. Yes, indeed. We poor folks see many an accident and mostly they don’t amount to much; even my Mary Jane—”
 
But there was Mary Jane herself just as the carriage door was closing, thrusting something white and feather-trimmed into the pale lady’s lap.
 
“Her hat, lady. Bonny-Gay’s best hat!”
 
Mrs. McClure was as kind hearted as most, yet at that moment she was already unstrung, and the glimpse she caught of poor Mary Jane’s deformity shocked her afresh. Without intending it she did shrink away from contact with so “repulsive” a child and Mrs. Bump saw the movement. Her own face hardened and she withdrew her arm from supporting the stranger to clasp it about her own child.
 
But Mary Jane saw nothing, save that Bonny-Gay was being carried away without her beautiful headgear, and again she thrust it eagerly forward.
 
“Her hat! Her lovely hat! She mustn’t go without her Sunday hat!”
 
It was the sweetest, most sympathetic of voices and almost startling to the rich woman, coming as it did from such a source. It made her take a second look at the cripple and this time, fortunately, the glance rested upon the child’s fine, spiritual face. An instant regret for the she had first felt shot through Mrs. McClure’s mind and leaning from the carriage window she dropped the hat upon Mary Jane’s dark head.
 
“Keep it, little girl, as a gift from Bonny-Gay. It will delight her that you should have it. Quick now, coachman. Swift and careful!”
 
Then they were all gone and Mary Jane, bedecked in her unusual finery, stood leaning upon her crutches, crying as if her heart would break. Her mother glanced at her hastily but thought it best to let “her have her cry out. She cries so seldom it ought to do her good,” she reflected. Besides, there was the baby rolling on the floor, in danger from a wash-boiler full of steaming water; and a whole hour wasted from her own .
 
Presently, the hunchback felt something cold and wet touch her down-hanging hand and dashed the tears from her eyes to see what it might be. There sat a great black dog beside her, so close that he almost forced her away. His eyes were upon her face in a mute appeal for sympathy, and his whole bearing showed as much sorrow as her tears had done. Her first impulse was to shrink away from him, even to strike at him with the crutch, as she indignantly exclaimed:
 
“You’re the very dog did it! You jumped into the wagon and scared the horses. If it hadn’t been for you she wouldn’t have been hurt. Go ’way! Go away off out of sight! You , ugly, mean old dog!”
 
Mary Jane’s surprised even herself and she shook her head so vigorously that the feather-trimmed hat fell off into the dust.
 
Then was a . Max—it was, indeed he!—had already dropped flat upon his stomach and thus, and moaning in a manner that such suffering that it quickly conquered the cripple’s anger; and now, as the hat fell right before his nose, he began to smell of it and lick it with the most joy. A moment later he had sprung up, caught the hat in his teeth, and was all around and around Mary Jane, as if he were the very happiest dog in the world.
 
“My sake! How you act! And oh—oh—oh! I know you, I know you! You must be that Max-dog that she told me about. That she’d known all her life and wouldn’t be let come any more to her park! I guess I can see the whole thing. I guess you run away from that man the gardener gave you to. Maybe you went right back to where ‘Father George’ and the lion are; and maybe you saw Bonny-Gay and the Gray Gentleman come away; and maybe you followed them. Maybe it was because you were so glad, and not bad, that you jumped into the carriage and scared the horses. Oh! you poor doggie, if that is how it is!”
 
Which was, in fact, exactly what had happened; and it seemed that the intelligent animal, who had loved Bonny-Gay ever since she was first wheeled about the beautiful Place in her baby-carriage, had now a comprehension of the damage his delight at finding her again had done.
 
So Mary Jane back into the house and called Max by that name to follow her. He did so, readily, and sat down very near to the foot of the bed on which she carefully placed his little mistress’ hat.
 
“Well, daughter, this has been a morning, hasn’t it? Now, these handkerchiefs are ready to iron and I’ve fixed your high seat right close to my tub, so whilst I wash you can iron away and tell me the whole story and all about it. Here comes father, too, and it’ll pass the time for him to hear it. And, oh! William! you never could guess whatever has happened right here in this very kitchen, this very morning that ever was! But, I must work now, and Mary Jane’ll talk.”
 
Talk she did and fast; and under her Bonny-Gay became quite the most wonderful child in the world:
 
“The beautifullest, the kindest, the friendliest that ever lived. It didn’t ’pear to make a of difference that she was all so fixed up in her clothes; she played games as lively as the next one. She hung on to the Maypole ropes near as long as I did, and if I’d known what was coming I’d have dropped off quick and let her win the count. And my! how she did enjoy her dinner off my loaf! To see her little white hands hold it up to her lips and see her just , nibble—Why, mother Bump! ’Twould have done your heart good!”
 
“Eat your dinner, did she? Wish to goodness it had choked her!” William Bump, from the doorstep.
 
“Why, father! W-h-y!” Mary Jane, amazed.
 
The man replied only by whistling Max to him, and by stroking the dog’s head when the whistle had been obeyed.
 
But when the cripple had reached that part of her story descriptive of the final accident, the father again and this time with even a more earnestness than before.
 
“Broke her leg, did it? Glad of it. Never was gladder of anything in all my life. Hope she’ll suffer a lot. Hope—What better is she, his little girl, than you, my Mary Jane? Glad there is something that evens matters up. I hope his heart’ll ache till it comes as near breakin’ as mine—every time I look at your poor crooked shoulders, you poor child! So I do!”
 
Both Mrs. Bump and Mary Jane were aghast at the awfulness of this desire. Even the baby had paused open-mouthed and silent, as if he, too, could comprehend the dreadful words and be shocked by them. Only Max remained undisturbed, even nestled the closer to the blue-shirted man, who in some manner reminded him of his old master, Mr. Weems.
 
Then Mrs. Bump found her voice, and though she was a loyal wife she did not hesitate in this emergency to give her husband a very indignant . So indignant, in fact, that she forgot the caution of many years, and with her hand on William’s shoulder, demanded fiercely:
 
“You say that, you? You! You dare to rejoice in the misfortunes of others when it was by your own fault—your own fault, William Bump!—that our poor lass sits yonder a cripple for life. When I left her in your care that I might go and for you to be given a fresh trial at the works, what was it but that you loved the drink better than the child? and left her on the high while you slept—a human log! Yet you were sorry enough afterwards and you should take shame to yourself for your wickedness. It’s the drink again that’s in you, this day; and that has lost you another job and turned your once good heart into a cruel beast’s! So that is what I think of you, and my—”
 
Then she turned and there sat Mary Jane, listening, horror-struck and broken-hearted!
 
Regret was useless. The secret, guarded so jealously for years, was now disclosed. Till then the hunchback had believed her affliction was hers from birth, and had never dreamed that it was the result of a terrible fall, due to her own father’s carelessness. He had always seemed to love her so, with a sort of tenderness quite different from the attention he gave to his other, healthier children. But if it had all been by his fault!
 
Poor Mary Jane! , alas! Far worse for her was the anger and that at that moment sprang to life in her tortured heart. As in a picture she saw other little maids, her playmates, even this recent vision of Bonny-Gay, straight-limbed, strong, active, enjoying everything without aid of those hindering crutches or the heavy dragging limbs.
 
“Oh! father! you did it? you! And I ought to have been like them—I ought—I ought!”
 
Nobody spoke after that. Mary Jane’s head sank down upon the high table where stood her little flatiron, fast cooling. Mrs. Bump felt a new and deadly faintness seize her own vigorous body and sat weakly down. How could she the she had ? Until now there had been between the father and the child such a wonderful affection that it had been a matter of constant comment among all the neighbors, and the mother had been proud that this was so. Now—what had she done, what had she done!
 
Presently, William Bump rose, put on his hat, whistled to Max, and walked out. At the door he paused, cast one miserable glance over the little room and his face was very white beneath its stains of and weather. His eyes seemed mutely to seek for one ray of pity, of forgiveness; but Mary Jane’s head was still upon the table and her mother’s face was hidden in her own labor-hardened palms.
 
Only the baby began to coo and gurgle in a way which, under ordinary circumstances, would have admiring , but which now secured no response. So, then he rolled over and closed his eyes; and not even he saw when the man and the dog passed clear out of sight, across the open lots, and toward the places which led to the water and the unknown country beyond.
 
By-and-by, the other children came home from the “Playgrounds,” full of about the day’s delights and eager with questions concerning the wonderful happening of Mary Jane’s ride. Then the mother roused and kept them from troubling their sister, and dispatched them to examine the carriage, away down the street.
 
By the time they returned Mary Jane’s eyes were no longer red and there was nothing out of common in her manner. Mrs. Bump was ironing away as if her life depended on it, and even humming the first strains of a , “Lord, in the morning, Thou shalt, Thou shalt—Lord, in the morning Thou shalt hear.” This always denoted an extra cheerfulness on the singer’s part, and the children became happy in proportion.
 
When supper time came they “set a place for father,” just as always; and though even by the end of the meal he had not appeared his unused plate was still left, as if he might come in at any moment.
 
Yet it was quite midnight when Mary Jane, for once unable to sleep, crept down to her mother’s room and called, softly:
 
“Has he come, mother?”
 
“No dearie, not yet. But it’s not late, you know for—him!” replied the wife, so cheerfully, that even her quick-witted daughter did not suspect the heartache beneath the cheerfulness, nor the tear-stained face upon the pillow.
 
“When he does, I wish you’d call me. I must tell him it’s—it’s all just right.”
 
“Yes, darling. Trust mother and go to sleep now. I’ll call you sure.”
 
And neither guessed how long that call would be delayed.