The blossoms were almost gone.  Small sprays lay faded on the grass where careless hands had scattered them.

Somehow, it seemed to Dorothy that the tree knew all about the accident; if trees could only talk, she thought.  Then, picking up a spray of the freshest blossoms, she hurried on.

To Dorothy’s surprise Mrs. Ford was very cordial in her welcome.  Dorothy had feared the mother of the injured girl might not be so pleased to see her.

“Walk right in,” said Mrs. Ford, opening the door.  “I am sure it will do Sarah good to talk with you.  She is so lonesome and talks in her sleep about the girls,” and she led the way to her daughter’s room.

The girl was now sitting up; her injured foot rested on a cushioned chair, while her face still showed signs of suffering.

“Sarah, dear,” began Dorothy with an affectionate embrace, “I am so glad to see you up.”

“Are you?” asked the other mechanically.

“Yes, indeed,” ignoring her cold manner, “we have been so worried about you.”

“We?  Who?” and Sarah toyed nervously with the coverlet that was thrown over her knees.

“Why all of us; the girls at school.  We hope you will soon be able to come back.”

“I will never go back.  I have had all I want of Dalton School,” and Sarah tossed her head defiantly.

“Here is a spray of apple blossoms.  I brought them from the orchard.  They are so sweet,” said Dorothy, “I thought they might make you think you were out of doors, when you shut your eyes and smell of them.”

She offered the spray to Sarah, but the girl made no sign of accepting it.  Dorothy was disappointed.  She did not mind the sick girl being fretful, but she had not expected her to be rude.

A rather awkward silence followed.  Dorothy had determined if possible, to reach the heart of this queer girl, but her best efforts seemed unsuccessful.

“Well, I had better go,” said Dorothy at length, still holding the blossoms in her hand, and standing beside Sarah’s chair.

She turned to leave.

“Good-bye,” she said.  “I hope you will be better soon.”

But Sarah caught her dress.  “Oh, Dorothy, do not leave me,” she wailed.  “I am so miserable, so unhappy!  Throw the apple blossoms out of the window and come back to me.  I need someone!  Oh, I feel as if I shall die, all alone here!”

Sobs choked her words, and she seemed struggling for breath.

“Shall I call your mother?” Dorothy asked anxiously.

“No! no!” cried the sick girl.  “I only want you.  Dorothy Dale help me—­ you must help me or I shall die,” and again Sarah broke into hysterical sobbing.

“What is it, Sarah dear?” pleaded Dorothy.  “Tell me how I can help you,” and she bent down closer to the weeping girl.

“Oh, I do not know.  I have—­Oh, Dorothy have you ever tried to injure another?”

“Why, no, dear, and I am sure you have not, either.”