"Shall I call your nurse?" Peace inquired, uneasy and alarmed at the vehemence of the older girl's grief.
"No! No! For goodness' sake, no! She won't let me cry, and I've got to, or—or—"
"Bu'st," suggested Peace, nodding her head sympathetically. "Yes, I know how 'tis. The nurse I had the first time after I was hurt wouldn't let me cry, either. But this time Miss Wayne never said 'boo,' when I couldn't hold in any longer. She'd let me have it all out by myself and then she'd come and tell me a funny story. She had sense."
"I wish Miss Pierson had some. She's always preaching sunshine and smiles. It's no wonder that girl downstairs can whistle and laugh. She's got folks to look after her all her life, and money to buy anything she wants."
"What girl?" asked Peace, with a curious sinking of heart.
"They call her Peace—"
"That's me, I thought 'twas. The d'scription seemed to fit so well."
The stranger drew back aghast, then said bitterly, "I might have known it."
"Don't you like me?" pleaded the child, feeling that her companion had grown suddenly antagonistic.
"I—I hate you!"