As she walked along, the pain in Shirley’s foot became less and less, until finally she was not conscious of it. The girls soon sat down upon the grass, where they watched the men fighting the flames, that the cars might not be entirely consumed.

Shirley suddenly jumped to her feet.

“Where is the girl we pulled from under the car?” she asked Mabel.

Mabel also sprung up.

“I had forgotten all about her,” she exclaimed.

They walked to where the little one lay, still moaning with pain. Shirley picked her up gently, and bade Mabel bring some water. This the latter did, and the two girls at length succeeded in soothing the child, until she lay still in Shirley’s arms.

Suddenly there was a fluttering of skirts, a glad cry in a woman’s voice and the tot was snatched from Shirley’s arms.

“Agnes, Agnes!” said the voice.

Shirley arose and faced the woman who had taken the child from her.

“I am Mrs. Johnson,” the woman said, “and this is my daughter Agnes. The men told me you saved her from the flames. I don’t know how to thank you.”

“Never mind the thanks,” said Shirley. “We simply pulled her away. That is all.”

“Why, Shirley,” exclaimed Mabel, “you almost lost your own life.”

Shirley frowned at her friend.

“It was nothing,” she said.

The little girl’s mother looked first at one and then at the other.

“I didn’t know you endangered your own life,” she said. “I wish I could thank you properly.”

“Just say no more about it then,” said Shirley, somewhat embarrassed by this conversation.

The woman smiled.

“As modest as you are brave,” she said. “Well, then, I shall say no more about it. But remember, if you ever need a friend, just call on me.”

“Thank you. I shall remember,” said Shirley, and the woman walked away, carrying her daughter in her arms.

From down the track at this moment came the buzz of an approaching car. It was the wrecking train bringing a crew to clear the track, also physicians and nurses.

Fortunately, the services of none of the latter were needed, for it was found, that besides the little girl Shirley had rescued, none of the passengers had been severely injured.

Half an hour later a car approached from the other direction, and came to a stop a few yards from the scene of the wreck. Passengers disembarked and, upon the instructions of an official, the car made ready to return toward Cincinnati.

Shirley and Mabel climbed aboard with the other passengers and soon were on their way once more. They did not wait to find their hand baggage, nor did any of the other passengers. It was hopelessly lost in the wreckage. Their trunks, they knew, would reach Cincinnati, and eventually home, without trouble.

The wreck had delayed the car for nearly two hours; so when they finally reached Cincinnati, it was too late to catch their train to Paris.

Shirley and Mabel had been in the Ohio city too many times to feel frightened, however. So, after sending a telegram to Mr. Willing explaining their reasons for not being home on time, the two girls made their way from the station to the Sinton Hotel, where they spent the night.

They were up bright and early the next morning, and caught their train soon after eight o’clock. Shortly before eleven they reached Paris.

Shirley, the first to descend the steps, was caught in the arms of a dignified, white-haired old gentleman, who squeezed her until she cried out:

“Stop, Dad, or you will squeeze the life out of me.”

The old gentleman laughed and, putting a hand on both of her shoulders, held her off at arms’ length and looked at her intently.

“Well, well,” he said, “so I have you back again. How glad I am to see you, daughter. It seems as though you had been gone ten years.”

Again he regarded her earnestly.

“Come, Dad,” said Shirley, “you are blocking the way. The people want to get off.”

“I’d like to know,” said Mr. Willing, looking about fiercely, “who is going to tell me to move.”

“I’ll tell you, Dad,” replied Shirley, smiling.

“Oh, well,” said her father, “that is a different matter. You and your mother are alike, both tyrants.”

He stepped aside, and thus allowed the first of the passengers who had been held back by this conversation to descend; and as the next one was Mabel, he caught her in his arms and held her also for a moment.

“Where is father?” asked Mabel gently, freeing herself from the elderly man’s caresses.

“He’s waiting at home for you,” replied Mr. Willing.

“Why didn’t he come to meet me?”

“Well,” said Mr. Willing, “I reckon he wasn’t feeling quite as well as he might, so he asked me to do the honors.”

“Is he sick?” asked Mabel anxiously.

“I reckon you might call it sick.”

“How sick?”

“Well, now, he’s not so sick; but if he pays much attention to some of these doctors he soon will be.”

Mabel was growing more and more anxious.

“Do let us hurry and get home,” she said.

“Now, now, dear, don’t excite yourself,” said Mr. Willing. “I reckon he will soon be all right again.”

On the opposite side of the station a large touring car waited. Mr. Willing pushed the two girls into the back seat and then took his place by the negro chauffeur.

“Home, Frank,” he said.

“Yessah,” replied the old darky, and started the car on its way.

Mabel leaned forward and spoke to Mr. Willing.

“You will take me home first, won’t you?” she asked.

“Your father,” was the reply, “has been staying with me for the last week. He is there now. You see, he was kind o’ lonely without his girl, so I just had him come to me.”

The automobile quickly covered the three miles to the Willing farm, and stopped before a broad wooden gate. This opened upon a broad blue-grass field on which a fine herd of cattle were grazing.

“I’ll open the first,” called Shirley, and jumped out of the car.

She threw it wide, and the car passed through. Mabel opened the second one into the paddock, and Shirley the third.

“There,” she said, when she was back in the car rolling through the long yard. “I’m always glad when that is done, although I don’t believe I mind opening gates now.”

“Nor I,” said Mabel. “I remember that is one reason I hated to come here sometimes, there were so many gates to open.”

“The older you get,” said Mr. Willing, who had overheard this conversation, “the less you will mind a little work.”

The car now drew up before a big red brick house, surrounded by many shade trees. The two girls jumped out lightly, and Mr. Willing followed slowly.

Mabel needed no directions as to where to find her father and, running into the house, she ran up the stairs and into the front bedroom.

She opened the door with a quick jerk, and then paused. The quiet figure in the bed caught her eye. It was her father, and he was sleeping.

Mabel tip-toed toward the bed, and bent over. Her father’s face was pale, but he seemed to be resting easily.

“Poor father,” said Mabel. “I won’t disturb him now.”

She turned and made her way toward the door. As she laid her hand upon the knob and was about to turn it, a voice called:

“Mabel!”

The girl turned. Her father was sitting up.

“Mabel!” he called again. Gladly the girl ran to him and was at once clasped in his arms.

“I didn’t want to wake you,” she said.

“You know very well,” was the reply, “that, after such a long absence, your very presence was bound to awaken me. I was asleep, but I must have felt that you had returned.”

Mabel sat down on the edge of the bed.

“Now tell me all about yourself,” she said. “How long have you been sick?”

“About a month,” was the reply.

“Why didn’t you write and tell me about it?”

“I didn’t want to spoil your vacation.”

“The idea! I would have come home at once to care for you.”

“That is the reason I didn’t write.”

“What does the doctor say is the matter?”

“Well, he has not diagnosed the case satisfactorily, but he says I have some sort of lung trouble.”

Mabel sprang to her feet.

“You don’t mean——” she exclaimed.

“Yes,” interrupted her father. “I am afraid that is what it is. He says that I must go away from here at once.”

For a moment Mabel was too stunned to speak. She sat down upon the edge of the bed again.

“Run away now,” said her father. “I’ll try and sleep some more.”

She kissed her father gently, and made her way from the room.

On the porch she met Mr. Willing.

“Why didn’t you tell me Father was so very sick?” she demanded.

“Pshaw!” he replied. “I don’t think it amounts to anything.”

“You know what the doctor believes is the matter with him?”

“Yes.”

“Consumption?”

Mr. Willing bowed his head in assent.