"A song! How's that?"

"Sometimes he is gay--full of jokes and laughter, sometimes he is sad, and I cry softly to myself in bed; but he is always beautiful, you know--like a song."

"And your mother?"

[Sidenote: "It is Lonely Sometimes"]

"I haven't got a mother," replied Sophy sadly. "That's where I'm only half like other little girls. My mother was frightened, and so was the little brother who was coming to play with me. They were both frightened, and so they ran away back again to G.o.d. I wish they had stayed--it is lonely sometimes."

"But you have your father."

"Yes, only father is away all day, and I sit such a lot at our window."

"But you have no pain, have you?" Mr. Waldron questioned with interest.

"No," answered Sophy, sighing faintly. "Only a pain in my little mind."

"Ah! my pain is in my toe, and I expect hurts a deal more than yours.

What's your father about that he leaves you alone and doesn't have you seen to, eh?"

Sophy's face blazed. "How dare you speak in that voice of my father!"

she cried. "He is the kindest and best, and works for me until he is quite thin and pale. Do you work for anybody? I don't think you do," she added scornfully, "you look too fat!"

"You haven't much respect for grey hairs, young lady."

"Grey hairs, why?" asked Sophy, still ruffled.

Mr. Waldron took refuge in plat.i.tudes.

"I have always been taught that the young should respect age, of which grey hair is an emblem."

"How funny!" said Sophy, leaning forward to look more closely at her companion. "To think of so much meaning in those tufts behind your ears!

I always thought what was inside mattered--not the outside. How much silly people must long to have grey hairs, that they may be respected. I must ask father if that is true."

"I suppose you respect your father?" said Mr. Waldron severely.

"Oh, no," replied Sophy. "I only _love_ him. I think the feeling I have for the gas man must be respect. Yes, I think it must be, there is something so disagreeable about it."

"Why?"

"Well, you see, he so often comes when father is out and asks for money, just as if money grew on our floor, then he looks at me and goes away grumbling. I think it must be respect I feel when I see his back going downstairs."

Mr. Waldron laughed. "You are a queer little girl!" he said.

"Yes, I suppose I am," answered Sophy resignedly. "Only I hope I'm not unpleasant."

When Dr. Norman returned he found the child and his patient on the best of terms. After placing Sophy in the carriage, he came back at Mr.

Waldron's request for a few words.

"That's a funny child," began the old man, glancing up at the doctor.

"She actually made me laugh! What are you going to do with her?"

"Take her home."

"Humph! I suppose I couldn't--couldn't----?"

"What?"

"Buy her?"

"Good gracious, Mr. Waldron! We are in the twentieth century!"

"Pity, isn't it! But there are many ways of buying without paying cash.

See what you can do. She amuses me. I'll come down handsomely for her."

"Well, you must let me think it over," replied the doctor in his most serious manner, but he smiled as he shut the library door.

An evening shortly afterwards Dr. Norman again called on old Mr.

Waldron. He found his patient much better, and seated at his writing-table, from which he glanced up quite briskly to inquire--

"Well, have you brought our queer little friend again?"

"Not this time, but I have come to know if you will help me."

"Got some interesting boy up your sleeve this time, have you?"

"No, only the same girl. I want to cure her lameness."

"Is that possible?"

"I believe quite possible, but it will mean an operation and probably a slow recovery."

"You don't want me to operate, I suppose?"

The doctor smiled. "Only as friend and helper. I will do the deed myself."

Old Mr. Waldron growled. "Flaunting your good deeds to draw this badger, eh? Well, where do I come in?"

[Sidenote: Dr. Norman's Proposal]

"Let me bring the child here. Let her be cared for under your roof. Her father is poor--he cannot afford nurses and the paraphernalia of a sick-room."

"So I am to turn my house into a hospital for the sick brat of n.o.body knows who--a likely tale! Why, I haven't even heard the father's name!"

"He is my friend, let that suffice."

"It doesn't suffice!" roared the old man, working himself into a rage.

"I call it pretty cool that you should come here and foist your charity brats on me!"