The arbitress of Joan’s fate appeared to hesitate, and the child thought best to revive enough to open her eyes (which she knew to be large and soft as a fawn’s) for one imploring glance. In the fall which had caused her to drop the Boyle baby, she had grazed her forehead against a lamp-post, and on the small, white face there remained a stain of blood which was effective at this juncture. She started, put out her hand, and groped for the old lady’s dress, at which she caught as a drowning man is said to catch at a straw. "On second thoughts, I will take her home, if she can tell me where she lives. She seems to be reviving," said the lady. "Where do you live, my poor little girl?" "I--don’t live anywhere," gasped Joan, white-lipped. "I haven’t any mother or any home, or anything. I wanted to die." "Oh, you poor little pitiful thing! What a sad story!" crooned the old lady. "You shall go to _my_ home, and stop till you get well, and I will buy you a doll and lots of nice toys." The rapidly recovering Joan determined that, once in the old lady’s house, she would stop long after she had got well, and that she would, sooner or later, have many things better than toys. But she smiled gratefully, faintly, looking like a broken flower. The groom was directed to place her on the seat, in a reclining posture, and she was given the old lady’s silk-covered air-cushion to rest her head upon. She really ached in every bone, but she was exaggerating her sufferings, saying to herself: "It’s come! I’ve walked right into the fairy story, and nothing shall make me walk out again. I’ve got nobody to look after me, so I’ll have to look after myself and be my own mamma. I can’t help it, whether it’s right or wrong. I don’t know much about right and wrong, anyhow, so I shan’t bother. I’ve got to grow up a grand, rich lady; my chance has come, and I’d be silly not to take it."