"Silly little girl!" said Roberta to Bobbie, and felt better.
"The poor leg," she told herself; "it ought to have a cushion—ah!"
She remembered the day when she and Phyllis had torn up their red flannel petticoats to make danger signals to stop the train and prevent an accident. Her flannel petticoat to-day was white, but it would be quite as soft as a red one. She took it off.
"Oh, what useful things flannel petticoats are!" she said; "the man who invented them ought to have a statue directed to him." And she said it aloud, becaused it seemed that any voice, even her own, would be a comfort in that darkness.
"What ought to be directed? Who to?" asked the boy, suddenly and very feebly.
"Oh," said Bobbie, "now you're better! Hold your teeth and don't let it hurt you too much. Now!"
She had folded the petticoat, and lifting his leg laid it on the cushion of folded flannel.
"Don't faint again, please don't," said Bobbie, as he groaned. She hastily wetted her handkerchief with milk and spread it over the poor leg.
"Oh, that hurts," cried the boy, shrinking. "Oh—no, it doesn't—it's nice, really."
