Miss Celia said nothing at first, but as day waned into night and Gay did not relapse into his former graceless conduct she added her meed of praise.
The next morning Gay was better—and Gay on a couch of pain and Gay in health were two different persons. Long before anybody else was astir he was standing and stepping—gingerly at first, then boldly—on the injured foot "to see if it would hurt!" As it did not he began to dress, selecting, with the recklessness of a boy, the first frock that came to hand; one of May's best ones, a pretty brown China silk, with smocked yoke, puffed-sleeves and a quaint little chatelaine pocket. It was not an easy frock to get into, and Gay tugged and toiled, thinking regretfully of knickerbockers and cambric blouse-waist.
"Goodness," he panted, "I wonder who would be a girl if it could be helped."
The chatelaine pocket belonged on the side, but in Gay's hands it swung in front.
"It will be handy for pears and things," said Gay to himself.
The hooks and eyes on the bodice showed the utmost aversion for one another, refusing to meet until forced to, but at length they were as securely joined as man and wife, and Gay popped his head out of the window to cool his brow. Making a girl's toilet was serious and heating work.
"Good morning, little invalid!" cried a pleasant voice. It was Miss Celia standing in the trim garden below.
Then Gay, obeying one of those extraordinary impulses that govern boys when there is a chance to court disaster, climbed through the window, swung off, caught a sturdy trumpet vine and slid to the ground, scattering leaves and flowers before him as he went. Rose Cottage was a low, irregular building and the distance from the window to the ground was not great, but such a descent was not without danger, and it certainly was one which the average wearer of petticoats would not have essayed. Poor, frightened Miss Celia permitted Gay to upset her ideas of maidenly propriety without a word of censure; she had scarcely strength to say,—