“No, I’m not crazy,” she assured them, regaining her strength with amazing quickness.  “You see, it seemed kind o’ funny to me after all these years o’ swearin’ that I’d never ride in one o’ these gasoline cars to find myself in one after all,—­and at my time o’ life.”

The girls gasped with relief, but still had the strange feeling of one who has been speeding over the water with all sails set and suddenly finds herself in the midst of a dead calm.

“B-but,” stammered Amy, voicing the general sentiment, “we thought—­were afraid—­you were hurt badly—­”

“Guess maybe I’d have thought so, too, if I’d had the chance,” responded the surprising old lady ruefully.  “Pretty well mussed up, I guess, and stunned.  Shouldn’t wonder if I found a heap o’ bruises around me somewhere—­but no bones broke.  You see,” she added, as though imparting a great secret, “the Sandersons’ bones jest never was made to break.  Now, there was our cousins—­the Petersons—­they was different.  One o’ that family wouldn’t dare waggle his finger too hard for fear it would bust on him.  You see, they was just naturally made that way.  My son, Willie,” here the brave voice lowered a trifle and tears rose to the bright old eyes, “he used to call them in fun—­always jokin’, that boy was—­the Break-bone Petersons.”

“But are you sure you aren’t hurt?” Betty insisted, still with that curious feeling of having the wind taken out of her sails.  “You see,” she added hastily, as the twinkle returned to the old woman’s eyes, “we were going to take you to the hospital, but if you are really sure there are no bones broken, I think you would like the Hostess House better.”

“Hostess House?” repeated the old woman, her eyes widening with interest.  “Yes, I’ve heard a lot about those places.  That’s where the sweethearts and mothers and wives of the soldier boys go, isn’t it—­to meet them—?”

“Yes,” Betty responded eagerly.  “You see, that’s what we are doing, helping to make them feel at home.  That’s why we want you to come with us now and stay there until you feel better.”

“But I’m not a mother, or a wife, or a sweetheart of any of those boys,” objected the little old woman, while the same cloud swept over her face, leaving it wrinkled and old.  “I—­I might have been—­if—­if—­Willie—­”

“But that doesn’t make any difference,” Grace assured her, speaking for the first time and laying a white, soft hand over the knotted, wrinkled one.  “We want you to stay with us and rest while we try to find the man who ran you down.”

“Oh, him!” cried the old woman scornfully, all the time patting Grace’s hand with gentle fingers.  “There’s no use wastin’ time lookin’ for him.  He’ll make pretty sure that he won’t be seen round these parts again—­not for some time, anyway.  But you’re dear, sweet little ladies,” she added, looking from Betty, whose arm still rested about her shoulders to Grace’s hand in hers and from them to the two girls in front.  “You’re awfully sweet little ladies,” she repeated, while the quick tears rose to her eyes.  “I don’t see why you’re bein’ so kind to me—­”