family wouldn't dare waggle his finger too hard for fear it would bust on
him. You see, they was just naturally made that way. My son, Willie," here
the brave voice lowered a trifle and tears rose to the bright old eyes,
"he used to call them in fun--always jokin', that boy was--the Break-bone
Petersons."

"But are you sure you aren't hurt?" Betty insisted, still with that
curious feeling of having the wind taken out of her sails. "You see," she
added hastily, as the twinkle returned to the old woman's eyes, "we were
going to take you to the hospital, but if you are really sure there are no
bones broken, I think you would like the Hostess House better."

"Hostess House?" repeated the old woman, her eyes widening with interest.
"Yes, I've heard a lot about those places. That's where the sweethearts
and mothers and wives of the soldier boys go, isn't it--to meet them--?"

"Yes," Betty responded eagerly. "You see, that's what we are doing,
helping to make them feel at home. That's why we want you to come with us
now and stay there until you feel better."

"But I'm not a mother, or a wife, or a sweetheart of any of those boys,"
objected the little old woman, while the same cloud swept over her face,
leaving it wrinkled and old. "I--I might have been--if--if--Willie--"

"But that doesn't make any difference," Grace assured her, speaking for
the first time and laying a white, soft hand over the knotted, wrinkled
one. "We want you to stay with us and rest while we try to find the man
who ran you down."

"Oh, him!" cried the old woman scornfully, all the time patting Grace's