“I couldn’t,” said Allison; “somehow, I have a prejudice against a hospital; but you need not worry about Doctor Ashmore’s fee—I am going to pay him myself.”
“H’m! that’s very good of you, and you must have lots of spare cash to be able to sling it about in that way,” Ellen observed, with a wistful glance at the silver-tipped pocketbook in Allison’s daintily gloved hand. “But,” starting to her feet, “I must be getting along home, though goodness knows how I am going to carry that bundle with only one hand, and—and my knees have a queer, shaky feeling in them, too,” she concluded, growing pale and sinking back upon the couch again.
“Where do you live?” Allison questioned, in a voice that was somewhat husky.
“Down on Greenwich Street.”
“Oh!” breathed the petted child of fortune, with a shiver of repulsion; and then she abruptly crossed the room to speak to the surgeon’s assistant. She asked him if he would call a carriage for her, after which she went thoughtfully back to her protégée.
“I am going to send you and your bundle home in a carriage,” she said to her; “and now tell me, please, was it exactly three dollars that was stolen from you this morning?”
“Yes, just the price of a dozen jackets.”
“What! you do not mean that you only get that amount for making a dozen jackets?” exclaimed Allison, aghast.
“That is all—just twenty-five cents apiece,” said the girl, with a confirmative nod.