Of course they went straight to aunt Augusta, who was still sitting by the window, and who was so used to emergencies that she took the whole affair quite as a matter of course.
“I’ve told the Lord I’m not worth it,” she had been heard to say, once, “but such as I am, I want to help. So I’m always expecting Him to give me something of the sort, just as my father used to let me hold the tacks when he was at work on pictures or carpets.”
Bridget was promptly put to bed and her foot dressed by Miss Augusta’s own deft hands. Before long she was fast asleep, which probably didn’t make much difference with her state of mind, as the whole scene, with Pet and the motherly woman hovering about her, was the best kind of a dream.
Meanwhile Pet told the story to her aunt; she had learned from the Irish girl, on the way to the house, that she had no father or mother living, but made her home with a dissipated uncle and brother, who took turns in the prisoner’s dock of the criminal court; where, likely enough, Bridget would have taken her own turn, before long.
“I know what I’m going to do,” said Miss Augusta, decisively. “I’m going to send her up to Mrs. Percival. When are you going back, Pet?”
“Day after to-morrow, I think.”
“Well, you can take her along as well as not.”
“But her family—”
“I’ll see Mr. Waldron—he’s the City Missionary—and he’ll fix it all right. We’ve often arranged matters like this.”
“But do you suppose Mrs. Percival will take her?” asked Pet rather doubtfully.