“Dat medicine oin’t got much taste, boss,” announced the urchin, cheerfully, “but it soytenly done me lots of good.”

The doctor looked up at Constance with a pleasant smile.  “There’s both the sense and the nonsense of the Christian Science idiocy,” he said; and half in response to his smile and half in nervous relief, Constance laughed merrily.

“I am glad for anything that makes him feel better,” she replied; then, colouring once more, she added, “and will you let me express my regret for my impulsive words a little while ago, and my thanks to you for relieving the suffering for which I am, to a certain extent, responsible?”

“There is no necessity for either, Miss Durant, though I am grateful for both,” he replied.

“Will there be much suffering?”

“Probably no more than ordinarily occurs in such simple fractures,” said the doctor; “and we’ll certainly do our best that there shall not be.”

“And may I see him to-morrow?”

“Certainly, if you come between eleven and one.”

“Thank you,” said Constance.  “And one last favour.  Will you tell me the way to my carriage?”

“If you will permit me, I’ll see you to it,” offered Dr. Armstrong.

With an acknowledgment of the head, Constance turned and took the boy’s hand and said a good-bye.

“Do you suppose all newsboys are so dreadfully sharp and suspicious?” she asked of her guide, as they began to descend the stairs, more because she was conscious that he was eyeing her with steady scrutiny than for any other reason.

“I suppose the life is closer to that of the wild beast than anything we have in so-called civilisation.  Even a criminal has his pals, but, like the forest animal, everyone—­even his own kind—­is an enemy to the street waif.”

“It must be terrible to suspect and fear even kindness,” sighed the girl, with a slight shudder.  “I shall try to teach him what it means.”

“There does not appear to be any carriage here, Miss Durant,” announced her escort.

“Surely there must be.  The men can’t have been so stupid as not to wait!”

The doctor tapped on the window of the lodge.  “Didn’t this lady’s carriage remain here?” he asked, when the porter had opened it.

“It stayed till the policeman came down, doctor.  He ordered it to go to the police-station, and got in it.”

“I forgot that my coachman must answer for the accident.  Is there a cab-stand near here?”

Dr. Armstrong looked into her eyes, with an amusement which yet did not entirely obliterate the look of admiration, of which the girl was becoming more and more conscious.  “The denizens of Avenue A have several cab-stands, of course,” he replied, “but they prefer to keep them over on Fifth Avenue.”

“It was a foolish question, I suppose” coldly retorted Constance, quite as moved thereto by the scrutiny as by the words, “but I did not even notice where the carriage was driving when we came here.  Can you tell me the nearest car line which will take me to Washington Square?”