During this long speech Myrtle had sat wide eyed and white, watching
his face and marveling at the strangeness of her fate. But she was
very, very glad, and young enough to quickly recover from the shock.

There was a round of applause from Patsy, Beth, the Major and
Uncle John, which served admirably to cover their little friend's
embarrassment and give her time to partially collect herself. Then she
turned to Mr. Jones and with eyes swimming with tears tenderly kissed
his furrowed cheek.

"Oh, Uncle Anson; I'm _so_ happy!" she said.

Of course Myrtle's story is told, now. But it may be well to add that
Uncle Anson did for her all that Uncle John had intended doing, and
even more. The consultation with a famous New York specialist, on
their return a month later, assured the girl that no painful operation
was necessary. The splendid outing she had enjoyed, with the fine air
of the far West, had built up her health to such an extent that nature
remedied the ill she had suffered. Myrtle took no crutches back to New
York--a city now visited for the first time in her life--nor did she
ever need them again. The slight limp she now has will disappear
in time, the doctors say, and the child is so radiantly happy that
neither she nor her friends notice the limp at all.

Patsy Doyle, as owner of the pretty flat building on Willing Square,
has rented to Uncle Anson the apartment just opposite that of the
Doyles, and Mr. Jones has furnished it cosily to make a home for his
niece, to whom he is so devoted that Patsy declares her own doting and
adoring father is fairly outclassed.