In the morning Mary opened her eyes and smiled into her mother’s, the ones in range with hers when she wakened. She touched her bandages and drew her brows trying to recall their meaning.
“Oh, now I know!” she said. “I remember. But I think I am better; I feel quite a different girl. Do you think I might have a nice little egg, madrina?”
“Oh, Mary, Molly darling! oh, my sweet, sweet girl! You may have all the eggs in the world, and all the chickens!” cried Mrs. Garden, falling on her knees in a frenzy of grateful joy.
Mary closed her eyes again with a tiny smile. “Too many--at once,” she murmured. Anne would not let any one but herself prepare the tray with Mary’s breakfast that morning. Jane and Florimel almost quarrelled with her for driving them off, but Anne was relentless.
“She’s been my child all her seventeen, going on eighteen, years, and I fed her and cared for her through every sickness she had. Now she’s asked for food I shall get her first breakfast ready, and that’s the end of it. You keep in mind how bad you wanted to do it, when you couldn’t, and wait on her hand and foot when you can, later on, when she’s getting about and tries to do for you two more than she should,” Anne delivered her ultimatum as she bustled about, getting out the little squat Wedgewood teapot, the cream jug and sugar bowl that Mary had loved best as a child, and had called “Mr. and Mrs. Dumpie Short,” affectionately.
It did not need Doctor Hall’s beaming face to tell the Garden household that Mary was better and was to stay with them. Nevertheless that look on his face was a joy to see, after the anxiety that had been knitting it.
“The best of the Garden girls is going to live on, Jane and Florimel,” he said.
“With the worst of them!” cried Florimel, in a burst of happy tears. “Jane and I don’t care how high you put Mary above us. We know all about _her_!”
“Oh, well, I’ve seen worse little girls than you two, though Mary is about the sweetest maiden anywhere. That old word suits her, too. I’m happier than you can believe to tell you she’s safe. And her pretty face not touched, nor her fine hands scarred, beyond one mark that will last, on the right one. Her arms may be scarred. I think she may have to wear lace over them--when she goes to balls, I mean! But I had no hope, at first, of coming so near saving her from disfigurement.”