"It's no child, miss; it is a boy older than yourself," said the man,
surlily obeying the command.

Margie Harrison descended to the pavement. From the sweet voice, Arch had
almost expected to see _her_. A flush of grateful admiration lit up his
face. She beamed upon him like a star from the depths of the clouds.

"Are you hurt?" she asked, kindly. "It was very careless of Peter to let
the carriage strike you. Allow us to take you home."

"Thank you," he said. "I am close to where I work, and I am not hurt. It
is only a trifling bruise."

Something familiar about him seemed to strike her; she looked at him with
a strangely puzzled face, but he gave her no light.

"Is there nothing we can do for you?" she asked, at length.

A great presumption almost took his breath away. He gave it voice on the
moment, afraid if he waited he should lack the courage.

"If you will give me the cluster of bluebells in your belt--"

She looked surprised, hesitated a moment, then laid them in his hand. He
bowed, and was lost in the crowd.

That night when he got home he found Mat worse. She had been failing for
a long time. She was a large girl now, with great preternaturally bright
eyes, and a spot of crimson in each hollow cheek.