When Evangeline came to see her during the afternoon, Mary looked up wonderingly into her face and said—
'What I can't make out is how Mrs. Coppert knew where I was! How did she know I was here?'
'If you sit down,' answered Evangeline, 'I will tell you a story.'
'Bring your stool close to me,' said Sister Agatha. And without losing a moment, Mary carried her stool to Sister Agatha's side and sat down. Then Evangeline began the story.
'Once upon a time there lived in London a young woman whom we will call—what shall we call her? Suppose we say her name was Gertrude! She lived in a large house and she had a lot of money, and she was very fond of driving nice horses. One afternoon, being a little late, she drove through the streets more quickly than she ought to have done. It was growing dark, and as she drove along a narrow street she ran over a poor little girl who was making mud-pies in the gutter, and knocked her down and hurt her very much.
'At first Gertrude feared she was dead, for her face was quite white, and her eyes were closed, and she neither spoke nor moved. But presently she moved a little, although she did not open her eyes.
'Now Gertrude felt very sorry, especially because she knew she had been to blame in driving too fast through the street, and she felt anxious to do whatever she could to make Lucy—we will call the little girl Lucy—quite well again. Of course a crowd soon collected to see what was the matter, and some one in the crowd told Gertrude where Lucy lived. But Gertrude thought the child would be more likely to get well if she took her to her own house, so she sent one of her servants to Lucy's friends to explain what had happened, but Lucy, herself, was put into the carriage and driven away with Gertrude.
'When they reached the house Lucy was carried upstairs to a spare room and put to bed, then a doctor was sent for, and when the doctor had gone Gertrude wrote to the best woman she knew. This person used to be a great friend of Gertrude's until she made up her mind to have nothing more to do with such idle, good-for-nothing people. So she went away from her friends and spent her life nursing poor folk who were sick. Well, this person, whose name ought to have been Sister Benevolence, agreed to take care of Lucy until the child grew strong again.
'But Gertrude feared she would never be quite so strong as she used to be, and she felt very, very sorry about it. But, you see, she couldn't undo what was done; she could only make up her mind to be much more careful in the future. She saw Lucy's friends, who were not very nice persons, and they said that Lucy had neither a father nor a mother, nor anybody who really belonged to her, so—so Gertrude gave her friends money, and they said she might keep Lucy at her house for ever.
'You must understand that Gertrude made up her mind that Lucy should not go back to the place she had come from, but that as soon as she grew better, she should be sent to school. But now I am going to tell you both a little secret about Gertrude. She often said she would do things, and yet when the time came she found she could not possibly do them. She intended to be very good, and when she saw people unhappy she always wanted to make them happy. Only she thought a great deal about her own happiness too, and in thinking of herself she forgot the others, and when she remembered them again, sometimes it was too late.