"O, dear," she greeted Gail. "I do show the least sense of anyone I know."
"What seems to be the matter?" asked the big sister, amused at the look of disgust on the small, thin face.
"I've just been gabbing with a real author lady, who has burned her hands 'most off, so she can't write any more, and I forgot to ask her name."
"Why, what are you talking about?" inquired Gail, amazed at the unexpected answer.
"The author lady I just found crying in a corner upstairs because she can't write stories any more. That's the way she's been earning the bread and butter for her family, and she don't know what will happen to them now. I thought maybe a typewriter would do the work, but she says it costs a hundred dollars to buy the kind she wants, and she wouldn't take my five. There's a baby boy, too, who can never walk unless there is an operation and of course it takes slathers of money for that."
"Whose baby boy are you interested in now?" asked a deep bass voice from the doorway, and Peace whirled about to confront young Dr. Shumway just entering the room.
"His name is Benny, and he b'longs to the little author lady upstairs who got burned 'most to death trying to put out the lamp which he tipped over. His mother is dead, and the little author lady has to take care of him and her own mother. I plumb forgot to ask what her name is, but I 'member now that she called her nurse Miss Piercing."
"Oh!" Dr. Shumway seemed more enlightened with that scrap of information than with all the rest of the story, and he stood stroking his chin thoughtfully, as he gazed absently at Gail seated by the window.
"Do you know her?" asked the small patient when he made no further comment.
"I know whom you mean," he answered slowly. "But she is not my patient. Dr. Rosencrans has that case. Where did you find out about her?"