The horse went lame, and
had to be watched over and petted, and finally, by the advice of a kindly
farmer, taken to a veterinary surgeon, who doctored him for a week before
he finally said it was safe to let him hobble on again. After that the
girl was more careful of the horse. If he should die, what would she do?
One dismal morning, late in November, Elizabeth, wearing the old overcoat
to keep her from freezing, rode into Philadelphia.
Armed with instructions from the old lady in Chicago, she rode boldly up
to a policeman, and showed him the address of the grandmother to whom she
had decided to go first, her mother's mother. He sent her on in the right
direction, and in due time with the help of other policemen she reached
the right number on Flora Street.
It was a narrow street, banked on either side by small, narrow brick
houses of the older type. Here and there gleamed out a scrap of a white
marble door-step, but most of the houses were approached by steps of dull
stone or of painted wood. There was a dejected and dreary air about the
place. The street was swarming with children in various stages of the
soiled condition.
Elizabeth timidly knocked at the door after being assured by the
interested urchins who surrounded her that Mrs. Brady really lived there,
and had not moved away or anything. It did not seem wonderful to the girl,
who had lived her life thus far in a mountain shack, to find her
grandmother still in the place from which she had written fifteen years
before.
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