o her sister.

She found her perfectly conscious, with large, wide-open eyes, watching
for her. Edith's head was bound up, and the pretty hands, of which she
had always been somewhat vain, moved restlessly. Cynthia took one of
them in her warm, firm grasp, and leaned over the bed.

"Dearest, you wanted me," she said, in a low voice; "I am going to stay
with you now."

But Edith was not satisfied. She tried to say something, but in so faint
a voice that Cynthia could not hear.

[Illustration: "I CAN'T HEAR YOU," SHE SAID. "DON'T TRY TO SPEAK."]

"I can't hear you," she said, in distress. "Don't try to speak; it will
tire you."

But still Edith persisted. Cynthia put her ear close to her sister.

"Did you say 'mamma'?" she asked.

The great brown eyes said "Yes."

"Do you want her?"

No, that was not it. Cynthia thought a moment.

"Oh. I know!" she exclaimed. "You are sorry about the drive, Edith; is
that it? You want mamma to forgive you?"

"Yes."

Cynthia flew down stairs.

"Mamma, mamma!" she cried, scarcely heeding her father, whom she had not
seen before, "come quickly! I have found out what Edith wants. She wants
you to forgive her for going to drive, and you will, won't you?"

And in a few minutes, satisfied, Edith fell asleep with her hand in that
of her mother's.

Many people came to inquire for Edith, for the news of her accident
spread like wildfire. Cynthia was obliged to see them all, as Edith
would scarcely let her mother go out of her sight. Now that her pride
had given way, she showed how completely her step-mother had won her
heart, entirely against her own will.

Among others came Gertrude Morgan.

"And how is your dear friend Tony Bronson?" asked Cynthia. "He nearly
killed Edith; what did he do to himself?"

"Oh, he didn't get very much hurt--at least he didn't show it much. He
went home right away. He thought he had better."

"Well, I should think he might have had the grace to come and inquire
for Edith, after upsetting her in that style, and almost breaking her
neck."

"He seemed to think he ought to get home. He thought he might be a good
deal hurt, only it didn't come out just at first. He said there were
inward bruises."

"Inward bruises!" repeated Cynthia, scornfully. "I guess the inward
bruise was that he was ashamed of himself for letting the horse run
away. Now don't you really think so, Gertrude? Don't you think yourself
that it was outrageous of him not to find