"You talk; I'll listen." Nothing loath, Mrs. Smithkins set to and related the story. It appeared that everybody in the house had run from their rooms at the sound of Evarne's terrible tumble, and, lifting up her unconscious form, had laid her upon Mrs. Harbert's bed--the nearest at hand. Her forehead, which was cut and bleeding, had been promptly tied up. But neither lavish sprinkling of water, draughts of undiluted gin, the burning of feathers nor the tickling of her palms, had sufficed to bring her to her senses, so the parish doctor had been called in. He had said a lot of things none of the hearers had been able to properly understand, but finally had said clearly enough that it would be weeks ere she was well again. Mrs. Harbert had undertaken to nurse her, and, according to Mrs. Smithkins, had fulfilled this promise like an angel of light. Sometimes she had been forced to be absent for the best part of the day about her work, but she had always prepared the invalid's diet beforehand, and Mrs. Smithkins had administered it. The doctor had been ever so many times! Once he even came twice in one day! As to Evarne's room upstairs, it was let to somebody else. A man from the firm had come and taken away the sewing machine, her bed was here--Mrs. Harbert now slept on it--her chair and table and other belongings were on the landing upstairs. Left alone, Evarne lay awake for hours pondering. She half regretted that she had not died; that would so have simplified matters. Now she had the future to worry about once more; and she felt positively overwhelmed by the knowledge of her poor old neighbour's extraordinary charity. When evening fell, and Mrs. Harbert entered very softly on tiptoe, Evarne greeted her, feeling quite embarrassed by the extent of this debt of gratitude. "Why, my dolly is quite well agin, the Lord be praised," declared the old woman, beaming all over her face. Placing on a chair the packed market-basket she carried, she proceeded to lay its contents one by one on the table. "I've got something for yer," she declared, triumphantly holding up a couple of volumes. "I bought 'em from an old bookstall. 'Rose Leaves or Strawberry Leaves? A Romance of Society.' That sounds real exciting, and will amuse 'er, thinks I, and then 'Gull--Gully somebody's Travels.' That will be instructive, and will educate 'er mind." "Mrs. Harbert, you are far, far too good to me. I shall never be able to thank you properly." "Yer can't do nothin' properly till yer gits well, and the doctor--nice old chap 'e is too--says yer ain't to talk." "Doctors always say that. Why are you so kind to me?" "'Cause I likes it. My gosh, 'ere am I, a lonely old woman, and when 'Eaven drops a nice-spoken pretty gal, bang splosh at my very front door, d'you think I was goin' to just git out my broom and sweep 'er away? That ain't Philadelphia 'Arbert." "I'll get well quickly now, not to cause you any more trouble."