“Them tiger-cats has got somethin’ to answer for,” Mrs. Jones said fiercely, “ef they’ve given that poor lamb laudlum enough to hurt her!”

“There must be some antidote for it,” said Marion, whose white lips trembled so with fear that she could hardly speak. “I will have a doctor if you will tell me whom to have. Surely he wouldn’t tell anyone about Elfie if you asked him not to.”

“Doctor Mitchell wouldn’t tell any thing we didn’t want him to,” said Mrs. Jones; “but we’ll try something ourselves first. Strong coffee is a good wake-up, I’ve heard tell; so’s ginger tea and foot-baths.”

But all of the home remedies failed to do much good. Elfie waked frequently as they pursued their kindly efforts, but took very little notice of any thing. Once, indeed, as she sat on Mrs. Jones’s lap with her feet in a basin of hot water, she looked down at the little jersey trousers that were part of her disguise; she shuddered and moaned:

“O, take those things off, take them off!”

Then the lethargy overcame her again.

“I am going over home,” said Mrs. Jones, with tears in her eyes, “to bring in a little night-gown from the clothes I put away in a trunk when my little Sarah Jane died ten years ago. It’s homely and old-fashioned, but it’s more decent for a little girl than pants and jacket, and then I guess I better have Dr. Mitchell come in and take a look. He’s safe, safe and sure; you needn’t be feared of him.”

The doctor’s coming to see a sick little girl caused no surprise to clerk and landlord, for they supposed it was Marion herself, who, the chamber-maid had told them, was ill and had sent for Mrs. Jones. Marion liked Dr. Mitchell at once; there was something about the very tones of his voice that gave her confidence, but she watched him anxiously as he carefully examined Elfie and asked a few questions which Marion was not afraid to answer, although to account for the condition in which he found the child she was obliged to tell something of their experience for the last two days.

He was much interested, and promised to find out for her what time Mrs. Abbott could arrive, and he said Elfie was suffering from the combined effects of fright and the continuous administration of some anodyne. She was very feverish and must be kept quiet. He ordered some medicine, and promised to come in again in two hours.

She was less feverish when he made his second call, and her sleep seemed more natural. He told Marion it was very important that when she should recognize any one her eyes should only rest upon familiar faces. So Marion never for a moment left her chair by the bed or let go her clasp of the little hand. Good Mrs. Jones came and went, spending all the time she could with them, and bringing over on one of her visits a tempting package of oranges and bananas.

There was a gentle knock at the door at nine o’clock, and Marion, softly rising and unlocking it, was folded in Mrs. Abbott’s arms.

Candace was with her. As she said herself, rheumatism couldn’t keep her back from her darling baby. She went directly to the bedside, and tears poured down her dark face as she looked at the pale little face she loved more than life. She lifted her gently to her shoulders. and, sitting in the rocker, began to rock and sing as if Elfie was a baby:

“Ullallah, ullallah, baby dear; ullallah, ullallah, mammy’s near!”

Over and over she sang the simple lullaby which was a song that she had hushed the child to sleep with every night of her babyhood, and at the old, familiar sound, Elfie’s eyelids fluttered, then opened and looked into the honest, loving black face above them, murmuring:

“Mammy, own mammy!”

Then with one or two long shuddering sighs she nestled down upon the cushiony shoulders.

Doctor Mitchell, who was waiting for her down-stairs, followed Mrs. Abbott to the room. He nodded his satisfaction as Elfie recognized her nurse, and, beckoning the others out of the room, advised leaving her with Candace.

“For the present she is safe,” he said, “but it may be long before her nerves recover from the great strain of the last few days.”

The clerk, at a hint from Mrs. Jones, now came up with great politeness and offered Mrs. Abbott the room vacated by Madame Belotti.

“Now, my dear, dear Marion,” she said, as the happy girl followed her into the room, “tell me all about it.” But before Marion told one word of her adventurous journey she put the diminished package of bills in her hand with:

“O, Mrs. Abbott, it did seem so much like stealing to use your money!”

“My darling”—and the tears fell fast from Mrs. Abbott’s eyes—“we owe you every thing. No money can ever pay you for saving our Elfie.”

Then Marion, with her hands tightly clasped in her friend’s, told all the story of her pursuit of the child.

“It is wonderful, wonderful,” said Mrs. Abbott, when she had finished; “you have shown more sense and judgment than most older people possess, and your bravery is beyond praise. O, my dear, how much you have undergone for that darling!”

In the morning Elfie was still better, and Mrs. Abbott went down with Marion to breakfast, the latter being the object of intense interest to every one in the house, for wild reports of the story had gone about, and Marion, without wishing it, found herself famous in a small way.

Sally, the smiling and rosy chamber-maid, laid various traps for enticing Candace down-stairs so she might extract a fuller version of the story from her. “But ef I never has a bit of food again,” said Candace, solemnly, “I’ll not let my lamb out of my sight till we gets home!”

The good news was telegraphed back to Coventry school with a demand for some of Elfie’s clothes. When the bag containing them came Elfie, very white and weak, was propped up in bed with pillows, with her loving eyes fixed on Candace, and listening, as if she were not hearing it for the hundredth time, to her repetition of “Water, water, quench fire; fire, fire, burn stick; stick, stick, beat dog,” etc.

She turned as the little dresses were taken from the bag, exclaiming:

“Elfie’s own girlie dresses! O, mammy, mammy, they dressed Elfie like a boy!”

They did not know till then that she had recovered the recollection of her experience with the Belottis, but after that she talked freely about it, and was told how Marion had been near her all the time, but had not dared to let herself be seen.

“Poor Marion!” she said, throwing her arms lovingly around her neck, seeming to know by instinct how hard it must have been for Marion to refrain from letting her know she was near.

It was several days before Dr. Mitchell felt as if it was quite prudent for them to take Elfie home, and when they went Mrs. Jones went too, having been persuaded by Mrs. Abbott to give herself a week’s vacation.

When the train stopped at Coventry only Miss Blake and Robert, the man, were on the platform to meet them, and they were as calm as if Mrs. Abbott was only returning from an ordinary business trip, such as she often took, for in her letters she had begged that there should be nothing done that might cause Elfie any excitement; but on the side piazza of the station, keeping well out of sight, was nearly every girl who attended the school.

Miss Blake, after seeing the others into the carryall, brought Marion around to the expectant crowd, who surrounded her with cries of enthusiastic delight. The story had been very sketchily told in a letter from Mrs. Abbott, and all the way home the girls were clamorous for more particulars, which Marion was very modest about giving. But her reserve did not matter so much for the moment, for the others were beginning to tell her of their own fright and distress about Elfie.

“Tell me,” said Marion, so softly that no one heard her but Lily and Katie, who were walking with their arms around her, “did any one think I had run away with Mrs. Abbott’s money?”

“No, indeed!” exclaimed the girls in the same breath, “except Edna.”

“That troubled me terribly,” said Marion. “I was so afraid of being suspected of dishonesty.”

“What nonsense!” said Lily. “Why, Mrs. Abbott told us it was the greatest comfort to know you had the money.”

“But why did Edna think I was so wicked?”

“I suppose because she is so mean herself,” said Lily. “And you see she was so dreadfully blamed by every body for taking Elfie out of the gate that she wanted to make it appear that other girls would do wicked things as well as she could.”

“She wasn’t the only one to blame for going out of the gate,” said Katie, sorrowfully.

“No, indeed, and we all insisted on sharing the blame with her, as we ought to! O, Marion, it was heart-breaking to see Candace’s agony, and Mrs. Abbott kept saying, ‘What shall I say to her grandfather?’ It was an awful house here, I can tell you. I wouldn’t live through the fright and worry again for the world.”

“Mrs. Abbott has decided now not to tell Mr. Bellamy any thing about it till he comes home, hasn’t she?” said Marion.

“Yes; she thinks that is best,” said Katie, “because it’s all right now; but, Marion, you should have seen Candace when that queer telegram came from ‘A. Manning!’ Who in the world is it? we thought. May be you were somewhere under an assumed name.”

“I’ll tell you all about it by and by; but what did Candace say?”

“She fell on her knees in the school-room and clasped her arms just as if she were holding Elfie in them. ‘Lord, Lord, let old Candace see her lamby again afore she dies!’ But after that she sat on the bottom step at the front door waiting for another telegram.”

That evening Mrs. Abbott, understanding and fully appreciating Marion’s shrinking from publicity, sent her to sit with Elfie while she gave the whole family a graphic account of the pursuit and rescue, being aided and abetted by Mrs. Jones, who was becoming a great favorite with the girls.

And then there was something for Mrs. Abbott to hear. During her absence Edna had telegraphed to her mother that she was sick and wanted to be sent for. This was not known to any one at the time, but her older sister, who came for her the next day, told Miss Blake of it. Certainly Edna was not very well, for fright and the fear of punishment had taken away her appetite and brought on a prostrating headache; so she was permitted to go home with her sister. And hardly had Miss Blake made this explanation to Mrs. Abbott when a letter came from Mrs. Tryon, in which, after stating that Edna appeared to have malaria, for which her family physician prescribed a change of scene, she had decided not to allow her to return to school, at least for the present, but take her with her to Europe, and, if her stay there was prolonged, place her in an English school.

There was a great feeling of relief in Mrs. Abbott’s mind as she read Mrs. Tryon’s letter, for she knew she should have to punish Edna by expulsion or in some very marked way, and she was not sorry to have it taken out of her hands. But the P. S. amused her very much:

“P. S. Hearing that you are far from particular about the social standing of your young ladies, I have less regret in removing my daughter than if you only kept aristocratic scholars, for I am very particular about my children’s associates.” She handed the letter to Miss Blake, who read it with indignation, and then, supposing she was expected to do so, although Mrs. Abbott had not intended it, passed it on to Mrs. Jones.

“I declare!” said that lady, when, after some struggling with her spectacles, she had mastered the contents and read the signature, Mrs. B. J. Tryon, “Belindy Jones Tryon is coming on. I guess she forgets when her mother kept a bake-shop and she had to carry around rolls for customers’ breakfasts, and her brother—that’s my husband—was proud to be earning money getting out of bed at four o’clock to go around selling newspapers. He aint ashamed of his folks’ poverty. His sister is, and she’s ashamed of owning them, too!”

There was an immense sensation then, when some well-directed questions brought out the fact that the lofty-minded mother of their elegant, high-born Edna was really the sister-in-law of plain Mrs. Jones, the restaurant-keeper, and Edna herself was her niece, although it was quite possible that the knowledge had been kept from the young lady, for Mrs. Jones told them that long ago Mrs. Tryon had given up all association with her family when the worthy young carpenter, who had married her for her pretty face, by some lucky chance was taken into a building firm and found himself on the way to make his fortune.

The girls had promised themselves much fun in humbling Edna’s pride, and were disappointed on finding that she would not return.

“Not even,” said Mrs. Abbott, “if the English school be abandoned and her mother make an application to re-enter her here. I am sorry that she ever came here. Even if she had not brought upon us the misfortune of losing Elfie, I should deeply regret the influence she has exerted over some of my scholars—some, too, whom I supposed firm enough in their principles not to be betrayed into violating them.”

That was the only reproof Mrs. Abbott ever gave to those whose folly had helped to make much trouble. She had thought over the matter and talked over it with the teachers, and it seemed to her that by their distress at the evil consequences that had followed their wrong-doing they were already sorely punished.

It was many months before Elfie entirely recovered from the nervous shock she had suffered, and came among the girls again. Candace could never be induced to trust her out of her sight except with Marion. “If dat dere rheumatiz goes an’ curls me up like a whip-snake,” she said, “it sha’n’t hinder me crawlin’ ’round after dat lamby!”

It may be said in passing that the blue Tam o’ Shanter became so interesting to the girls, after hearing the share Miss Manning had in helping, that many of the girls wanted them, and when Marion wrote, according to promise, to tell that friendly lady the sequel to her journey, she had the pleasure of encouraging the church-organ scheme by ordering six blue and as many red caps.