“Dreadful!—­dreadful!” sighed Peter, looking the picture of woe.  “Love in a garret—­everybody in rags,—­one meal a day—­awful situation!  Something’s got to be done at once.  I’ll begin by taking up a collection this very day.  In the meantime, Felicia, I’ll just keep on to Jack’s and see how his arm’s getting on and his head.  As to his heart,—­I’ll talk to Ruth and see—­”

“Are you crazy, Peter?  You will do nothing of the kind.  If you do, I will—­”

But Peter, his hat in the air, was now out of hearing.  When he reached the mud line he turned, drew his umbrella as if from an imaginary scabbard, made a military salute, and, with a suppressed gurgle in his throat, kept on to Jack’s room.

Somehow the sunshine had crept into the old fellow’s veins this morning.  None of Miss Felicia’s pins for him!

Ruth, from her place by the sitting-room window, had seen the two talking and had opened the front door, before Miss Felicia’s hand touched the bell.  She had already subjected Peter to a running fire of questions while he was taking his coffee and thus had the latest intelligence down to the moment when Peter turned low Jack’s light and had tucked him in.  He was asleep when Peter had peered into his cramped room early this morning, and the bulletin therefore could go no further.

“And how is he, aunty?” Ruth asked in a breathless tone before the front door could be closed.

“Getting on splendidly, my dear.  Slept pretty well.  It is a dreadful place for any one to be in, but I suppose he is accustomed to it by this time.”

“And is he no worse for coming to meet us, Aunt Felicia?” Ruth asked, her voice betraying her anxiety.  She had relieved the old lady of her cloak now, and had passed one arm around her slender waist.

“No, he doesn’t seem to be, dearie.  Tired, of course—­and it may keep him in bed a day or two longer, but it won’t make any difference in his getting well.  He will be out in a week or so.”

Ruth paused for a moment and then asked in a hesitating way, all her sympathy in her eyes: 

“And I don’t suppose there is anybody to look after him, is there?”

“Oh, yes, plenty:  Mrs. Hicks seems a kind, motherly person, and then Mr. Bolton’s sister runs in and out.”  It was marvellous how little interest the dear woman took in the condition of the patient.  Again the girl paused.  She was sorry now she had not braved everything and gone with her.

“And did he send me any message, aunty?” This came quite as a matter of form—­merely to learn all the details.

“Oh, yes,—­I forgot:  he told me to tell you how glad he was to hear your father was getting well,” replied Miss Felicia searching the mantel for a book she had placed there.

Ruth bit her lips and a certain dull feeling crept about her heart.  Jack, with his broken arm and bruised head rose before her.  Then another figure supplanted it.