“Oh! I forgot. You haven’t been real awake since it happened. Max—”
“Child!” interposed the nurse who had fed her.
“Oh! mustn’t I tell?”
The two white-capped women exchanged glances. After all, their patient would have to learn about her own condition; and children had often ways of their own which proved wiser than grown folks thought.
“Ye-s, you may tell.”
“You were thrown out the carriage. Don’t you remember? Max had run away to find you, and when he did, he didn’t stop to think of anything else. He just jumped right into the carriage, where you and the Gray Gentleman and the baby and I were all riding splendid. That made the horses afraid and they acted bad. You got tumbled out and broke your leg. That’s all.”
“That’s—all! Why, Mary Jane! You say it as if—as if—you didn’t care!”
Bonny-Gay began to cry, softly.
“Yes I did say that’s all, because that isn’t much. It’s a good job it wasn’t your head. A broken leg gets well quick; quicker’n ever if it’s only a little leg like yours. If it was your mother’s now, or your father’s, you might worry. But, my sake! I wouldn’t mind a little thing like that if I were you. To lie in this heavenly room, with all the pictures and pretty things, and folks to wait on you every minute, why—I’d think I was the best off little girl in the world if I were you.”
“But I can’t walk on it, nobody knows when. Nor go out-doors, nor—nor—I think you’re a mean girl, Mary Jane Bump!”