It was a brown, knitted stocking, and she wondered who had knitted it, and whether it was the boy's mother, and whether she was feeling anxious about him, and how she would feel when he was brought home with his leg broken.

When Bobbie had got the stocking off and saw the poor leg, she felt as though the tunnel was growing darker, and the ground felt unsteady, and nothing seemed quite real.
"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, because 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 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.