But Mary Jane Bump was not the girl to be gloomy over anything for very long; least of all over anything so as her own personal afflictions; and the morning saw her about in her narrow home, as merry, as loving, and as helpful as ever. Even more helpful, it seemed to the conscience-stricken mother, than before she had felt the fierce anger of the previous day.  
“Appears like she’d try to make even me forget she ever heard what I said, poor lamb! Well, I still think, what I’ve so often thought, that the Lord did bring sweet out of that bitter, when He made her so beautiful inside, even if she is without. And more’n that, to me she don’t seem so misshaped. I almost forget she ain’t just like the rest. Aye, honey? What’s that you say?”
 
“If you can spare me, mother, after all the work is done, I’d like to go to Bonny-Gay’s house and find out about her. Oh! do you s’pose she will get well?”
 
“Sure, child.”
 
“I guess she will, too. Can I, mother? When the work’s all done?”
 
“Bless you, my lass, and that will never be. So there’s no use tarrying for such a time. And I don’t blame you for wanting to go. I’d admire to hear myself. But I guess it’s a long step from here and I don’t know the way, even I don’t. You’d have to ride in a street car and that costs money—which is one of the things I can least spare.”
 
At mention of the car, Mary Jane’s eyes sparkled.
 
On rare occasions—once when she went to market with her mother, at holiday time, and once when the wash had been too large and the patron’s home too distant for even her nimble —she had enjoyed the luxury of travel by electricity. In imagination, she could still feel the swift rush of air against her cheek, could see the houses hurrying past, and hear the ting-a-ling of the bell, as the motorman stopped to let the passengers on or off. She had not dreamed that it would be necessary for her to ride, in order to pay the visit she desired; but if it were—Oh! felicity!
 
The light in the eyes she loved the mother upon the indulgence. A car-ride meant a nickel, or part of one, at least, for even little Mary Jane; and a nickel would buy a loaf, and many loaves were needful where there were seven mouths to fill, and every mouth a hungry one. More than that, if William were out of work—
 
Mrs. Bump considered no further. Mary Jane should have the pleasure—no matter what happened .
 
“Of course, you’ll ride! Why not? Don’t suppose I’d let you start off a-foot for such a length, do you? I’ve a notion that this Mt. Vernon Place is away at the other end the city. Leastwise, it must be a good bit from street, ’cause I never heard of it before, and I’ve been around the neighborhood considerable, with the wash, you know. Yes, you may go. Fly round right smart and get your clothes changed. What a fine thing it is that your other frock is clean, and I must say I did have good luck ironing it, last week.”
 
“You always do have good luck, mother Bump! You’re the very loveliest ironer in the world!” and the wooden feet clicked across the room that their owner might hug this famous laundress.
 
“And you’re a partial little girl, honey.”
 
“But, mother, dear, the work isn’t done—yet. There’s the steps to be scrubbed and that other pile of hank’chiefs, and—”
 
“Well, I reckon we’ll live just as long if our steps ain’t done for one day in the year. Besides, I might let one the younger ones do them and see. They’re always teasing to, you know. Strange, how human nature loves to mess in a pail of soap and water.”
 
“Who’ll mind the baby, if I go?”
 
“I will, Mary Jane Bump! Seem to think the precious youngster ain’t hardly safe in his own mother’s hands, do you? Run along, run along, girlie, and fix yourself fine.”
 
Away up the narrow stair swung happy Mary Jane; and in a very few moments down she swung again. She had exchanged her blue gingham for her pink print, had dusted off the shoes which, ! were so useless that they rarely wore out! and had brushed her dark hair till it floated about her sweet face, as fine and fleece-like as it was possible for hair to be. In her hands she carried two hats; her own little plain “sailor,” and the gift of Bonny-Gay.
 
“Oh! I wouldn’t wear—” began Mrs. Bump, answering the question in Mary Jane’s eyes; then seeing the disappointment which crept into them, hastily altered her original to fit the case. “I wouldn’t wear that old ‘sailor’ if I was a little girl that owned feathers like those. Indeedy, that I wouldn’t.”
 
Mary Jane’s face with smiles and for almost the first time in her life she did a coquettish thing. upon her crutches before the tiny looking-glass, hung at an angle above the mantel, she adjusted and readjusted the pretty leghorn, until she had placed it as nearly in the position it had occupied on Bonny-Gay’s yellow curls as she could. Then she wheeled about and asked:
 
“Does it look right, mother? Just as right as she would like to have it, when she sees me?”
 
“Perfect, honey! And though I maybe oughtn’t to say it before you, you’re the very sweetest little girl in Baltimore city!”
 
“Ah! but, mother Bump, you haven’t seen all the others!” laughed the child.
 
“Now, here’s your money. Two nickels, dear. I’ve just given them a bit of a polish in the suds while you were up-stairs. One is to go with, and one to come home. I’ve been puzzling it out, and the best thing is for you to go to the nearest car-line you find; then ask the conductor how nigh it will take you to the Place. He’ll be kind to you, I know. They’re always obliging, the conductors are, and when it’s anybody like you, why they just seem to tear themselves to pieces to be nice. You’ll have no trouble, honey, not a . And when you get there, don’t forget to make your manners, pretty, like I’ve taught you. Say everything to cheer the lady up, if she seems down-hearted a bit, and good-by, good-by. Bless you, Mary Jane!”
 
Mrs. Bump stood at her and Mrs. Stebbins at hers, to watch the little figure away, and when it turned at the corner and they caught a glimpse of the radiant face beneath the picture-hat, they smiled upon each other well satisfied.
 
“No harm’ll happen to her!” said Mrs. Stebbins, confidently. “She’s one of the Lord’s own.”
 
“I’m not fearing! though I’m going to miss her powerful,” answered the mother, and to her tub.
 
Mary Jane’s heart beat so with excitement that she could hardly breathe. Here she was, going alone on an unknown journey, to ride in a car quite by herself, and to pay her own fare exactly as if she were a grown-up. She had to tightly clutch that corner of her little handkerchief wherein the nickles were tied, to make herself realize the delightful fact; and already, in her dutiful heart, she was planning how she could save, by not eating quite so much of her portion of food, and so, in time, make up to her mother for this unwonted extravagance.
 
Indeed, she thought so fast and deeply, that she stood on the corner and let the first car go by without signalling it. Then she brought her wits to the present and when the next one whizzed up she was ready for it, raising her hand and motioning it to stop, as she had seen other people do.
 
It did stop, of course, and to such a little passenger, also, of course, the conductor was quite as kind as Mrs. Bump had he would be. He lifted Mary Jane into the very front seat of all and he would have been glad not to take a fare from her. But this his duty compelled him to do, and when he had received it he paused a moment beside her to inquire:
 
“Taking a ride, are you? Well, it’s a nice morning.”
 
“Isn’t it! Just beautiful. Yes, I’m going to Mt. Vernon Place.”
 
“Whew! you are? Well, this is the wrong car—Never mind. You can transfer. Mt. Vernon Place is a long way from here and quite the swellest part of the town; you know that, I suppose.”
 
“It’s where Bonny-Gay lives.”
 
“Oh! indeed. Well, don’t you worry. I’ll look out for you and pass you along. Company allows only one transfer, now, but I’ll fix it. It’ll be all right. Don’t worry.”
 
Mary Jane had not the slightest intention of worrying. That was something she had never done until the night before, and then about her missing father. But in this brilliant sunshine, with the world all her own, so to speak, even that anxiety had disappeared. He would be sure to return and very soon. He loved them all so dearly, and even for herself, if there were none others, he would come. He couldn’t live without her; he had often told her so. Therefore she merely hoped he was having as good a time, at that moment, as she was; and settled herself in her place to enjoy everything.
 
She never forgot the first part of that day’s ride. There were few passengers in the car and these were all men, quite able to look out for themselves; so the conductor remained near her and talked of the places they passed, pointing out this building and that, for Mary Jane’s enlightenment. She upon each an attention that was quite flattering to her entertainer, till the car turned another corner and he had to move away. People came more frequently now and at every block of their advance, the men and women seemed to Mary Jane to crowd and hurry more and more. They almost crushed her own small person, climbing past her, but she still clung sturdily to the outer corner of her seat, as her friend, the conductor, had bidden her.
 
“No need for you to move up, little girl. You’ll be changing after a bit, and it’ll be easier for them than you.”
 
Right in the very business part of the city the car stopped and he came back to her, thrusting a pale green slip of paper into her hand, and hurriedly lifting her out.
 
“That’s your transfer. Yonder’s your car. Give that paper to the other conductor. He’ll help you on. Say, Snyder!” he called to his co-laborer. “This kid’s for Vernon Place. Put her off at Charles street, will you? and pass her along. I’ll make it right with the company.”
 
Then he was gone and Mary Jane stood bewildered in the midst of a of vehicles, and street cars, and busy, rushing people. For an instant her head whirled, then she saw the impatient of conductor Snyder, and swung herself toward the waiting car. A man, into whose path she had , caught her up and placed her on the platform, and again she was off.
 
But this time she was merely one of a crowd and the ticket collecting kept Mr. Snyder too busy to bother with any single passenger. Indeed, some slight just as they reached Charles street put Mary Jane and her destination quite out of mind, and it was not until they had gone some blocks beyond and he had chanced to come near her again that she ventured to ask:
 
“Are we almost there?”
 
“Where’s there?”
 
“He—he said—Charles street,” she answered by his brusque manner.
 
“Charles street! Why, that’s long back. Did you want to get off there? Oh! I forgot. You’re the child—Well, such as you ought not to be traveling alone. Here. I’ll put you off now, you can walk back. Ask anybody you meet, and they’ll direct you. Wait. I’ll give you another transfer. It’s against rules, but the other fellow’s responsible.”
 
This time it was a yellow slip Mary Jane received and again she was set down in the midst of a confusing crowd. She was in danger of being run over, and saw that; so retreated to the curbstone and from thence watched the unending procession of cars,which followed one another without a moment’s break. For just there it happened that many railway lines used the same tracks and it would have puzzled a much more experienced person than Mary Jane to distinguish between them.
 
Finally, she grew so tired and confused with the watching and the racket that she resolved to walk; and set out boldly in the direction from which she had come, scanning the street name-signs upon the corners. It seemed to her she would never come to that she sought, but she did, at last; and here a new difficulty presented.
 
“Which way shall I go? this—or that? Oh! dear! The time is going so fast and I don’t get there. I’ll have to ask somebody the way.”
 
But though she made several shy little efforts to attract attention, not a passer-by paused to answer her low question. Almost all fancied her an unfortunate, petitioning alms; and some thought her a street merchant with something to sell. Many and many an one had gone by, till in the midst of all these men she saw a woman.
 
Only a scrub-woman, to be sure, on her way to some office to her daily ; but she paused when the cripple to her and looked with feminine curiosity at the plainly clothed child in her expensive hat.
 
“Mt. Vernon Place! Why, child alive, it’s miles from here! Away up yonder. This is Charles and it does run straight enough, that’s so, to where you want to go. But it’s so far, little girl. And you a cripple. You’d much best go back home and let some older person do your errand. Whatever was your ma thinkin’ of, to send you such a ?”
 
“She didn’t send me, I came because I wished. Can you tell me which car is right? and will this yellow ticket pay my way?”
 
The woman examined the transfer-slip, glanced at a clock on a near-by building, and shook her head.
 
“That’s the car, all right, but that transfer’s no good. After fifteen minutes they won’t take ’em, and it’s half an hour or more. No. You’ll have to pay a second fare. I’ll help you on, if you like. Where do you live?”
 
“Ninety-seven, Dingy street.”
 
“The land! That’s almost the jumping off place of the city. Did they give you only money enough to ride twice.”
 
“My mother gave me ten cents,” answered Mary Jane, proudly, yet somehow, the fortune which had seemed so big, a little while before, now appeared very small and .
 
“Pshaw! If I had a cent I’d give it to you. I don’t know what you’d better do.”
 
“I know. I’ll walk. And thank you for telling me the way. If I keep right on this street, and go up and up, will I surely, surely get there.”
 
“Sure. I know, ’cause I used to clean up in that neighborhood. I hope you’ll have luck. Good-by.”
 
“Good-by,” answered Mary Jane, smilingly.
 
The pause and conversation had rested her and she now felt wholly equal to any demands upon her strength. If she had merely to follow this one avenue till she came in sight of the monument and the lion, why! that was as easy as A, B, C! So she set out with fresh courage and full of every novel sight or sound by the way; though, all the while, reading the street sign at every corner she reached.
 
It was almost two hours later that she came in sight of the Place. She knew it in a moment, even though she had had but the one brief description of it from Bonny-Gay’s lips, and she felt as if she had come into a new and wonderful world.
 
“How big and still and—and—finished it looks! And, oh! how tired I am. My arms ache like they never did before, and I can hardly hold my crutches. I’ll get to that low stone round the monument—that’s where she sits with the Gray Gentleman—and I’ll get rested. Then I’ll look all around and pick out her house. I shall know it because she said it was all covered with vines and there was a big yard behind, with trees and things. Oh! how good it is to sit down.”
 
So good, indeed, that before she knew it the little maid had dropped her head upon the and fallen fast asleep.
 
There Mr. Weems discovered her and would have roused her to send her home. But a second glance at her convinced him that this was no child of that locality, and that she seemed a very weary little girl, indeed. So he simply folded his own jacket and placed it under her head and left her to recover herself.
 
She awoke after a little time and sat up, confused and rather frightened. Till she suddenly remembered where she was and, seeing a gardener at work upon a grass-plot near, decided at once that he must be the owner of Max. She saw, too, the coat which had formed her pillow and knew that he must have placed it there. With a glad cry she caught up her crutches and swung herself toward the keeper:
 
“Oh! sir, I thank you. I was so tired and the coat was lovely soft. And I know you. You’re Mr. Weems, the gardener, and I’ve seen Max. He’s at our house, I mean he was—last night. And he will be again, ’cause he’s with father, who’ll fetch him back. Father just loves dogs and animals. And say, please, which is Bonny-Gay’s house?”
 
“Bless my soul! You don’t say? Then you must belong around here, though I didn’t think it. You’ve seen Max, and you ask for our Bonny-Gay! Well, you’ve struck trouble both times. He’s in trouble enough, but she in worse. That’s her home, yonder, on the west corner. The green house I call it; with those doctors’ carriages in front of it.”
 
“It is? Why, how funny. What’s all that straw for?”
The gardener shook his head, sadly, and hastily away at his eyes.
 
“That’s to deaden all the noise. Bonny-Gay is a very, very sick little girl and there’s about one chance in a thousand, folks think, for her to get well. She was in an accident, yesterday. Got thrown out a carriage. The gentleman that took her driving is almost crazy with grief about it and—What’s that? What’s that you say? You was with her? You? And that’s her hat—Upon my word, it is. She showed it to me, the very first day she had it, while she was out here waiting to go driving with her folks. And she’s the only one they’ve got. I reckon her poor father would give all his millions of dollars and not stop a minute to think about it, if he could make her well by doing it. Poor man, I pity him!”
 
“It was Max did it, you know. I’ve come to see her, and you mustn’t tell me she’s so sick as that. Why, she was that beautiful to me—I—I—”
 
Waiting not an instant longer, and despite the gardener’s warning, Mary Jane clicked across the smooth path, over the street, and up to the very front door of the , wherein lay a precious little form, watched by a crowd of nurses and friends.
 
The outer door was ajar, a footman standing just within, keeping guard and ready to answer in a whisper the constant string of which neighbors sent to make. Past him, while he was talking to another, slipped Mary Jane, her crutches making no sound upon the thick carpet. One thought her, one only; and made her almost unconscious of the novel scenes about her. Bonny-Gay was ill. Bonny-Gay might die. Well, she would have one more glimpse of that beloved face, no matter who tried to stop her.
 
Her brain worked fast. Sick people were generally up-stairs; up-stairs she sped. Sick folks had to be quiet. She paused an instant and peered down the dim corridor. She saw that as the people passing along this hall approached a distant door they moved even more gently and cautiously. In that room, then, lay her darling!
 
It seemed like the passage of some bird, so swift she was and so unerring, for before even the most of the nurses could intervene she had entered the darkened and crossed to a white cot in the middle of it. By that time it was too late to stop her. Any noise, any excitement, however trivial, might prove fatal, the doctors thought.
 
Bonny-Gay lay, shorn of her beautiful curls, almost as white as her pillows. But the small head moved restlessly, incessantly, and the silence of the night had given place to a , talk. All her troubled fancies seemed to be of the last scenes she had witnessed: the “Playgrounds,” with the eager children crowding them. She was see-sawing with Jimmy O’Brien, and hoeing cabbages with the baby. She laughed at some inner picture of his absurd accidents, and finally, as some menaced him, raised her shoulders slightly and :
 
“Mary Jane! Oh! Mary Jane—come quick!”
 
All the watchers caught their breath—startled, fearful of the worst. Yet upon the silence that followed the cry, there rose the sweetest, the gladdest of voices:
 
“Why, yes, Bonny-Gay! I’ve come!”