"Do come, and bring the baby to-morrow," interrupted Mary, eagerly. "You see the afternoons are the worst part of the day for me; mother is at home in the morning, getting the dinner ready and other things; but in the afternoon she has to go to school to teach the girls needlework, and so I am all alone."
"Poor Mary! It must be lonely for you, I may call you Mary, may I not?" she said, kissing the invalid again, and looking pityingly at the pale faded face.
An answering kiss, and a whispered, "Dear Elsie, I am so glad you have come," sealed the girls' compact of friendship.
"Do you never go out?" asked Elsie, after a pause.
"I have not been out for a long time. Mother is afraid I should take cold, but father said the other day, he thought he should carry me out in the garden, sometimes, when the weather got warmer."
"Oh! But if you could have a ride in a bath chair, that would do you more good than just sitting in the garden."
"But you see I have to lie down all the time, and even then my back aches dreadfully sometimes."
"So would mine if I was always lying on it," said Elsie, stoutly. "You were not lying down when I came in yesterday; you were sitting in that easy-chair by the window."
"Yes, my back ached so much that I persuaded mother to let me sit up just for once. It was funny that I should have that fancy, for if I had not been here, I should not have seen the fight, and they might not have brought your brother in, and then I should not have seen you, and that would have been a pity. Don't you think it would?"
"Yes, I should have been sorry, for you see I have no girl friend here; and though I love Tom very much, he is only a boy, and can't be expected to understand things as a girl can."