It was a short walk to the car line,--too short, indeed, for Miss Durant
to express her sense of obligation as she wished,--and she tried, even as
she was mounting the steps, to say a last word, but the car swept her away
with the sentence half spoken; and with a want of dignity that was not
customary in her, she staggered to a seat. Then as she tendered a dollar
bill to the conductor, she remarked to herself,--

"Now, that's a man I'd like for a friend, if only he wouldn't be foolish."

At eleven on the following morning, Miss Durant's carriage once more
stopped at the hospital door; and, bearing a burden of flowers, and
followed by the footman carrying a large basket, Constance entered the
ward, and made her way to the waif's bedside.

"Good-morning," she said to Dr. Armstrong, who stood beside the next
patient. "How is our invalid doing?"

"Good-morning," responded the doctor, taking the hand she held out. "I
think--"

"We's takin' life dead easy, dat's wot wese is," came the prompt
interruption from the pillow, in a voice at once youthful yet worn. "Say,
dis oin't no lead pipe cinch, oh, no!"

It was a very different face the girl found, for soap and water had worked
wonders with it, and the scissors and brush had reduced the tangled shag
of hair to order. Yet the ferret eyes and the alert, over-sharp expression
were unchanged.