Great was the amazement at Mrs. Flanagan’s when the grand carriage drove up, and Dr. John and Tim got out; and dire were the lamentations of Berty’s little family when informed of the accident. But Tim’s glowing account of the comforts of the hospital and the kindness of the Doctor and the nurse went far to console them; and Mrs. Grey’s famous basket of provisions, too, was a great help: for these poor little children seldom tasted anything really good; and even Gottlieb and Lina, who were the only ones old enough to appreciate their sister’s misfortune, could not help heartily enjoying the wholesome food.
Fritzy cried a little for his Berty when bedtime came, but Lina managed to soothe him; and, for the rest, the Doctor’s pleasant face had so won their hearts that they were quite ready to credit Tim’s assurance that both they and Berty would be safe under his care.
Tim did not sleep at the foot of the stairs again, but spread his straw pallet at the head of them, close to the children’s door, in spite of uncle Teddy’s remonstrance. He did not mind the hard bed in the least; but the pocket-book pricked so, through the thin pillow under which it was laid for safe-keeping, that Tim resolved to bring Berty to terms on the morrow, or never to take charge of it again.
CHAPTER X.
MRS. GREY’S SUSPICION.
Dr. John was met at the door on his return by little Mary who had been sitting at the window an hour or more, watching for him to come. She had worked off a little of her enthusiasm in packing the basket of provisions, but was still full of eager curiosity and sympathy. Grandmamma, too, was very anxious to hear more of the little sufferer at the hospital, and the helpless children of whom little Mary had told her. So Dr. John was obliged to go over the whole story of Berty’s injuries, and her patient endurance of the painful operation and dressing,—of her anxiety for her little ones,—of Tim’s touching account of the helpless family, given during their drive,—and, last of all, he was made to describe Mrs. Flanagan’s house, and the room in the attic, and the poor little orphans themselves.
“But there is one thing,” said Dr. John when he had finished his story, and answered every question Mary could think of,—“there is one thing for which I cannot account. The child was talking to you, Polly, when the stage stopped; was she not? What could have possessed her to dart into the street in such a frantic way, I cannot tell; and the boy seemed quite as much at a loss to account for it as I. What were you saying to her, Polly?”
“I don’t remember,” answered Mary, thoughtfully,—“Oh, yes, I do, too! She had been telling me about the children, you know, and I offered to help her, and then I remembered that I hadn’t my purse; and then I saw you, and I asked if you had found your pocket-book, because I wanted to borrow some money; and then she ran. I know now I thought it was because she didn’t want to take it; and then came the accident and put everything out of my head.”