Mary Jane drew a deep breath. Under the inspiration of this other more imaginative child, she was fast forgetting the hard, dry facts of life; and whether this were best or no, it was, at least, delightful.
“Well, I’d go to your father and I’d pay him money, and I’d get all those miles and miles of country to do with exactly as I pleased. Then I’d take some more of the money and I’d get the men that build houses to make a house, right in the very prettiest spot there ever was. Where there was water if I could, ’cause my father, he’s so fond of fishing. He’s quit work, lots of times, to go fishing down the bay. I’d buy him a fish-pole and lines and hooks. I’d buy him and mother a cow and a horse and a market-wagon. They had a market-wagon once, but a man came along and told him he could make more money in the city; and he sold their things and lost the little farm and came. He’d be all right if he was back in that country, I guess. I’d like to see it, myself.”
The eager speaker stopped short. Again she had almost revealed what no loyal daughter should,—a parent’s fault. But Bonny-Gay was so interested, she seemed so to know beforehand what was in a body’s mind that words slipped out of themselves.
“Have a care. Tell the truth!” adjured Polly.
“Of course I will,” answered the cripple. “Now, Bonny-Gay, it’s your turn. What would you do if you had all the money and could?”
The unseen father leaned forward a little. He was profoundly interested in any possible desires his darling might express, and, for the matter of that, she rarely did ask for anything. Maybe, because almost all desirable things came to her without the asking.
“I hardly know. Yes, I do, too. I’d buy all the parks in this city and in every other one. I’d hunt up all the little children in the cities. I’d make free ‘Playgrounds’ for them, every one. Even the little girls should have their little cunning ‘farms,’ just the same. I guess they’d want to plant flowers, though, wouldn’t they? instead of cabbages and limas. Then I’d take all the grown-ups who wanted to go into the country and couldn’t, and I’d send them. And I’d let them stay a whole week, I guess. If I could. If there was room enough. And when Christmas came I’d have everybody that was poor come to my house, just like the Gray Gentleman does to the halls he hires, and I’d make them as happy as—I am. I wouldn’t let anybody in the whole wide world be sick nor sorry; I wouldn’t let anybody hurt nice dogs or turn them out of their own parks; and—Oh! Mary Jane, do you s’pose we’ll ever see dear old Max again?”
“Why, Bonny-Gay? Didn’t you just make me feel ’t he was right with father? Course, then, when father comes he’ll come; and if you aren’t well by that time I’ll coax father to lead him up here to see you. If he’ll be coaxed;” she added gravely.
The child on the cot glanced through the window. “There goes the Gray Gentleman, to see ‘Father George’ and the lion. I wish he’d come to see me; but he’s afraid my mother blames him for taking me that day, I think, though nobody ever said so.”
“I’ll go ask him!”