“Yes,” said the girl, surprised. “How do you know about it?”
“Cyrus's uncle—he's Dr. Hardaman, the great orthopedic surgeon—says that there are thousands of children walking to-day who owe their legs to that brace of the Little Red Doctor's.”
“You never told any of us about that!” I cried.
“No,” she answered composedly. “It seemed to make the Little Red Doctor uncomfortable when Cyrus spoke of it. So we kept it quiet.”
“You see, he might really have made a fortune by patenting it,” said the brown-and-gold fairy.
“That is what I asked Uncle Charles. He said that physicians, the best type, don't take out patents. You see, the patent would have made the brace cost more, and the more it cost the fewer people could buy it, and that would mean more children who ought to have walked and couldn't. And, oh, my dear! if you could see the poor, pitiful, wee things as we see them in Our Square, withered and hobbling like old, worn-out folk —”
“Don't! Don't!” cried the girl. “I—I never thought of it that way.”
“Why should you? But the Little Red Doctor would.”
“Yes, but he didn't explain it that way,” said the brown-and-gold fairy miserably. “He said something stupid about ethics, and I said something I didn't mean—and,”—her head drooped,—“and that was our last quarrel.”
“And you loved him all the time, and still do,” said the Bonnie Lassie gently.