Straightway the honest couple set out for the hospital and, on arriving there, were taken to the bedside of a dying woman.
"Are you Olly Whyte?" asked the woman, feebly.
"Yes, that's me," said Whyte.
"My name is Johnson and Bill told me that if anything went wrong I was to look out for Olly Whyte, and he would help me."
"Are you Bill's wife, then? Where is he?"
"Dead, two years ago, and I am going to join him."
"Poor old Bill!" said Whyte, feelingly.
"I've got a little girl," murmured the poor woman. "She ain't been brought up first class, but if you would look after her I'd die happy."
"Where is she?" said Mrs. Whyte, speaking for the first time. "Of course we will do so."
That night the widow of Whyte's old mate, Bill Johnson, died and the house of Whyte had an additional inmate in the shape of a tousled-haired little girl, removed from a tenement in Little Bourke Street, one of the lowest slums in Melbourne. When Amy Johnson found herself in the midst of these novel surroundings, and experienced the delights of new and warm clothing and of plenty of good things to eat, and the disagreeables of having her face and hands washed oftener than she thought necessary, her equilibrium was completely upset. But time and careful handling soon made her forget her old ways. As she grew up, she developed startling qualities of mind and body, united to a loveable disposition, that she soon filled the gap in the home of the old couple. At the age of eight she was sent to school, where she early distinguished herself and became a great favourite with the teacher, as with her schoolfellows. Her life was one of sunny happiness, the more so because she was completely unspoiled. Though she never knew trouble, she could yet sympathize with it, and she returned the idolization of her adopted parents with a love and consideration that caused them to bless the day that saw them on their errand of mercy to Melbourne Hospital.