"The car’mels. I swallowed ’em quick. I didn’t have time to eat ’em." Peggy and her mother exchanged wide-eyed glances. "Don’t mind about that, dear," coaxed Peggy. "By and by, when you feel better, I’ll make you some more candy." Dorothy’s sobs ceased with an abruptness that was uncanny. "Feel better now," she said. "But where does it hurt, Dorothy?" "Don’t hurt. But I like butter-scotch better’n car’mels." "You shall have butter-scotch, you precious. But where--" Peggy’s solicitous inquiries were interrupted by Dorothy’s clapping her hands and beginning to frisk about in a manner which set at ease conclusively any fear as to broken bones. "It’s struck into her brains most like," said Sally hopefully. "I knowed an idget boy onct. It was a fall striking into his brains that ailed him." Mrs. Raymond and Peggy were too accustomed to Sally’s doleful prophecies to be cast down. They heaved sighs of relief, exchanged smiles, and Peggy flew to her room to get her apron. At the head of the stairs she encountered Ruth, a red-eyed, drooping figure, and Peggy’s conscience reproached her that in her own alarm and relief, she had momentarily forgotten her friend’s greater cause for anxiety. "You see," she whispered, pausing for a moment, "Sometimes things turn out better than you think they will. I was almost sure that Dorothy was dreadfully hurt, you know." But Ruth only shook her head and made the answer characteristic of people in trouble, who are all likely to think their own especial load unlike any other burden. "But this is different." *CHAPTER XI* *CHRISTMAS PREPARATIONS* Peggy’s door was locked again, but this time it was not Ruth’s fault. Peggy would have said, if questioned, that she had "troubles of her own," and the chances are that it would not have occurred to her that there was anything incongruous in the selection of such a phrase to describe her Christmas preparations. The little bed-room, usually a model of exquisite neatness, in spite of its simplicity, now suggested a compromise between a church fair and a rummage sale. Articles in various stages of completion were draped over the furniture, or hung on door-knobs. The bed was piled so deep that often when bed-time approached, Peggy was tempted to take to her easy-chair for the night, for what of the night was left, that is to say, for Peggy was infringing sadly on those hours warranted to make one healthy and wealthy and wise, if properly observed. Mrs. Raymond was uneasy when she saw the gleam of light through the transom long after midnight, but Peggy met all remonstrances with the plead, "O, please don’t say anything, mother, till Christmas is over. You know I’ve got to finish." When Dorothy rattled the door-knob this particular afternoon, Peggy’s start was suggestive of over-strained nerves. Her voice was unnaturally sharp as she demanded, "who’s there?" "Me."