"You can't go," Mrs. Donaldson began; but Elsie interrupted her. "I must go," she said, promptly. "I can't leave Duncan. I wouldn't do that for anybody. It's through me that he's ill, and I won't go away from him."
"Then you wouldn't like to come to London with me?" Mrs. Donaldson said, in her most fascinating manner.
"Not without Donald, thank you, ma'am," Elsie replied at once.
"I thought you wanted to find your father," Mrs. Donaldson said, kindly; "and Donald should come as soon as he is well. For the matter of that, I would come myself, or send Uncle William to fetch him."
"I couldn't go without him," Elsie doggedly persisted.
Then Mrs. Donaldson grew impatient; her voice was no longer sweet and persuasive. "I will do nothing more for you," she said, angrily. "You can give me back the things I brought you, and I will leave you to die of hunger and cold, as you would have done before this but for me. Get that child's things on, and you shall go at once to the hospital, and see what they will do for you."
Elsie did not mind at all about the ungraciousness of the consent, so long as she had won her purpose.
The prospect of getting to London even was nothing in comparison to the hope of seeing Duncan nursed and tended back to health. She would cheerfully have given up the frock and hat that had so pleased her; but this, it seemed, was only a threat, for Mrs. Donaldson said no more about it, but went away, and sent Meg to help put on Duncan's things.
"He ain't fit to be dressed, and that's the truth," Meg said compassionately, as she used her utmost exertions to put the poor child's clothes on without hurting him. "They'd better have rolled him in a shawl."
"He'll be all right when we get there," Elsie said, with a sigh of relief. "I hope it won't be far. Do you think they're sure to cure him, Meg?"