Then she remembered nothing, knew nothing, until she heard somebody sobbing close to her ears; and opening her eyes, she saw the sweet face of Mrs. Dale, with the black veil thrown back, and with tears in the blue eyes, leaning over her tenderly. Mrs. Dale uttered a cry of joy, and another voice, which Mabin recognized as Rudolph’s, said: “Thank God! she isn’t dead, at any rate.” “Are you better, dear? Are you in any pain?” asked Mrs. Dale with so much solicitude that answering tears of sympathetic emotion started into the girl’s own eyes. “I am quite well, quite well,” said Mabin. “Only--only--I think my foot hurts.” Rudolph and Mrs. Dale exchanged glances. “I thought so,” said he. “She’s broken her ankle.” Mrs. Dale’s pretty eyes began to fill again. “We must lift her into the carriage,” said she. “And you will go on and prepare her mother, and see that a doctor is sent for at once.” And, in spite of the protests she feebly made, Mabin was gently raised from the ground by Rudolph’s strong arms, and helped into the victoria, where Mrs. Dale took her seat, and, telling the coachman to drive slowly, insisted on making her own plump little shoulder the pillow for the girl’s head. But Mabin, having recovered her spirits, if not her walking powers, wanted to talk to the new friend she had so unexpectedly made. “You are very good to me,” she said. “I have never had so much kindness from any one since my mother died. It was so strange; when I woke up just now I felt what I thought was my mother’s touch again. And yet I had forgotten all about that. For she has been dead fifteen years.” “Poor child!” said Mrs. Dale. “I am glad of that, dear, that I reminded you of her,” she whispered gently. “Of course I don’t mean that,” went on Mabin quickly, trying to sit up. “I don’t mean that you could be a mother to me now, as I am. That does sound ridiculous! You couldn’t be my mother when you are the same age as myself.” As a matter of fact, Mabin looked older than her companion. But when the conversation thus turned to herself, Mrs. Dale’s pink face grew suddenly pale, and Mabin looked at her shyly, and flushed, feeling that she had said something wrong. But almost before she was conscious that she had touched some sensitive spot, Mrs. Dale said softly: “Go on talking, dear, about your mother, or--or anything. I am lonely, you know; very lonely. And it is a treat to hear you talk.” The girl flushed again, this time with surprise. “You like to hear me talk! Ah, then you must be lonely indeed. For they say at home I never talk without saying the very last thing I ought to say.” As she came to the end of her speech, Mabin found that her words insensibly began to run the one into the other, and that her voice died away. And, greatly to her own astonishment, she found her head falling heavily upon that of her new friend.