"What's her name?" asked Florence, as the doctor started to leave the table.
"Bridget O'Keefe."
"What!" And in spite of herself, Jessie wrinkled her nose in disgust.
"Yes, I told you she was Irish, you know," answered the doctor briskly. "Now I must be off. Think it over till Monday and then let me know."
And a moment later, the front door shut behind him.
Aunt Jane went out after dinner, and Mrs. Adams made an excuse to leave the girls to themselves. Gathered around the parlor fire, they had an animated discussion, and, with many a practical suggestion from Alan, their plan of work was agreed upon. Each was to take her own day, and give up half an hour after school to a call on this other girl, who was condemned to lie still and know that the world was going on around her just as usual. There was no difficulty in planning for the first five days of the week; but the girls, though fired with a desire to do good, yet drew back from pledging themselves to break into their Saturday afternoons, the one holiday of the week.
"What's the use of going Saturday?" said Florence. "If we go to see her every other day but that, it ought to be enough."
"I don't want any half-way work," said Jean decidedly, "and yet, it does seem too bad to upset our fun when we've always been together. What if we draw lots for it?"
But Alan objected.
"That's kind of a shirky way to do. If I'm ever ill, I don't want you drawing lots which shall go to my funeral. I'll go Saturday, myself."