“What’s her name? Who’s her father?” the doctor demanded.
Peggy answered, “Father’s Jim Johnson. I guess mebbe he’ll pay you—sometime.”
The doctor’s face changed. He remembered when Jim Johnson’s wife died a year before—he remembered the three children now.
“There’s nothing to pay,” he said kindly, “only be careful how you pull your little sister around by the arms after this. Some children can stand that sort of handling, but she can’t.”
“O, thank you!” Elizabeth’s eyes full of gratitude were lifted to the old doctor’s face as she spoke. He rose, and looking down at her, laid a kindly hand on her shoulder.
“That camp’s a good place for you. Stay there as long as you can,” he said. “But don’t lug a three-year-old a mile and a half again. You are hardly strong enough yet for that kind of athletics.”
They all filed out then, and Elizabeth put little Polly John into the soapbox wagon, kissed the small face, dirty and tear-stained as it was, and stood for a moment looking after the three children as they set off towards Slabtown.
As they went on to the camp, Olga kept glancing at Elizabeth in silent wonder. Was this really the Poor Thing who could not do anything—who would barely answer “yes” or “no” when any one spoke to her? Olga watched her in puzzled silence.