"Well," she said, "have you heard about poor little Joy?"
"No; what's the matter?" asked a chorus of voices.
"She was out last evening with Mr. Boyd, and as they were coming home a horse came galloping along the Market Place, and Joy was knocked down. She has hurt her head, they say, or her back. The doctor has been there half the night, and Mr. Boyd is mad with grief. It has made a scene, I can tell you, in the row."
"Why, Bet!" one of the girls exclaimed, "don't do that!"
For poor Bet had seized the arm of the girl nearest her to support herself. Her heart beat wildly, her face was blanched with fear, as she gasped out—
"Oh, I must go to little Miss Joy! I must, indeed I must!"
"Nonsense! Don't squeeze my arm like that; you'll pinch me black and blue. You can't go to little Miss Joy; she wouldn't want you."
"No; I should think not!" said May Owen. "The notion of a scarecrow like you being a pleasant sight to Mr. Boyd in his trouble! Mrs. Harrison is with the child."
"Tell me—tell me," poor Bertha gasped; "will she get well? will she live?"
"I don't know. Let us hope so, for she is a darling, and every one loves her," said another voice. And then a bell rang, and the girls trooped up the steps into the house, and the business of the morning began.