ushed her way on through the press to the very edge of
the crowd. A crying woman caught wildly at her arm, as she stood for a
second struggling to advance.

"It's a child!--A little girl--run over by an automobile! O God help
the poor mother!" the stranger sobbed hysterically.

Martha freed herself from the clinging fingers and pressed forward. "A
child--Miss Claire's such a little thing, no wonder they think she's a
child," she murmured. "True for you, my good woman, God help the poor
mother!"

"You know her?"

"I know Miss Claire."

For some reason the crowd made way, and let her through to the very
heart of it, and there--sure enough, there was Claire, but Claire crying
and kneeling over an outstretched little form, lying unconscious on the
pavement.

"Why, it's--my Francie!" said Martha quietly.

CHAPTER X

Through all the days of suspense and doubt, Claire swung like a faithful
little pendulum between home, the Shermans, and the hospital.

Then, as hope strengthened, she was the bearer of gifts, flowers, fruit,
toys from Mr. Ronald and his sister, which Martha acknowledged in her
own characteristic fashion.

"Tell'm the Slawson fam'ly is bound to be _in it._ It seems it's the
whole style for ladies to go under a operation, an' as I ain't eggsackly
got the time, Francie, she's keepin' up the tone for us. If you wanter
folla the fashions these days, you got to gather your skirts about you,
tight as they are, an' run. But what's a little inconvenience, compared
with knowin' you're cuttin' a dash!

"Tell'm I thank'm, an' tell Lor'--Mister Ronald, it's good of'm to be
tryin' to get damages for Francie out o' the auta that run her down, an'
if there was somethin' comin' to us to pay the doctors an' suchlike,
it'd be welcome. But, somehow, I always was shy o' monkeyin' with the
law. It's like to catch a body in such queer places, where you'd least
expect. Before a fella knows it, he's _up_ for liable, or breaches o'
promise, an' his private letters to the bosom of his fam'ly (which
nowadays they're mostly ruffles), his letters to the bosom of his fam'ly
is read out loud in court, an' then printed in the papers next mornin',
an' everybody's laughin' at'm, because he called his wife 'My darlin'
Tootsie,' which she never been accustomed to answer to anythin' but the
name o' Sarah. An' it's up to him to pay the costs, when ten to one it's
the other party's to blame. I guess p'raps we better leave good en