Again Mary Jane’s thoughts had been swift. She recalled the fact that “when Joe Stebbins had the fever and talked crazy-like, the doctor said we must answer just as if ’twas the way he said. ’Twould have made him worse to argue him different,” and with this reflection made her instant response.
Now Bonny-Gay had either been less ill than they fancied, or the crisis had been reached; for at that cheerful reply she opened her blue eyes and looked into the eager face so near them. For a brief time she said no more, seeming to seek for some explanation of those troubled dreams from the steadfast smile of her new friend; then she stretched out her hand and Mary Jane caught it rapturously between her own palms.
“You—you look nice in my hat. But I thought—I thought—I was at your park. Yet it’s home, isn’t it, after all. How dark it is, and how tired I am. I guess I’ll go to sleep a few minutes. Though I’m very pleased to see you, Mary Jane.”
Through the hearts of all in the room shot a thrill of thankfulness, yet nobody moved as the injured child dropped at once into a quiet sleep which meant, the doctors knew, the saving of her life and reason.
Mrs. McClure had kept up bravely, till that moment, but now her strength was leaving her in the shock of her sudden relief and joy.
“Tell the girl not to move nor draw her hand away—till Bonny herself releases it;” she whispered, as an attendant led her noiselessly out of the chamber.
She did not know how long and difficult a task she had set the unwelcome visitor; for while she herself sank into a much needed rest the sick child still slept that deep, refreshing slumber which was to restore her to health.
The hours passed. The doctors went silently away. One nurse took up a watchful position near the bed and remained almost as motionless as the chair she occupied. A gray-haired man appeared at the doorway, took one long, delighted look at the small figure on the cot, barely seeing the other child beside it, and went away again. This was the anxious father and he moved with the lightness of one from whom an intolerable burden has been removed.
Meanwhile, a second nurse took observation now and then of Mary Jane. The position into which the cripple had sprung, in her eager clasp of Bonny-Gay’s hand, was a trying one. Half-bent forward, with no support for any portion of her body save that sidewise seat upon the foot of the cot, it was inevitable that muscles should stiffen and limbs ache, even in a stronger frame than Mary Jane’s. Besides that, she was very hungry, almost faint. Her slight breakfast had been taken very early, and since then she had not tasted any food, though it was now midafternoon. Presently, she felt her head grow dizzy. Bonny-Gay’s face upon the pillow appeared to be strangely contorted and the clasp of the small hand within her own to become vise-like and icy in its grip. She began to suffer tortures, all over, everywhere. Even her useless legs were prickling and “going to sleep,” like any overtaxed limb. She feared she would fall forward, in spite of all her will, and that might mean—death to Bonny-Gay! She knew, of her own intuition, that she must not move, even without the whispered command of Mrs. McClure, and in her heart she began to say a little prayer for strength to hold herself steady till her task was at an end.
Then, all at once, she felt that the crutches resting against her side were being noiselessly lifted away. Somebody, who moved as if on air, was putting a rolled up pillow under her own tired chest; another at her side—her back; and beneath the heavy feet a great soft cushion that was like her own mother’s lap, for restfulness.