CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
So the weeks passed until one afternoon in early August, when James Mitchell was taken suddenly ill and Hilda sent for Anne. She found her mother sitting in the kitchen, crying helplessly as if she would never stop. Anne knelt beside her.
"Mamma. Dear. Don't. You mustn't; you'll get all worn out."
Through the running tears Hilda's frightened eyes clung to Anne.
"It—it was terrible. I've never been through such a thing in my life. I had such a time to get you. They—brought him home—oh, I wish Belle was here."
Anne took the shaking hands in hers and held them firmly.
"Mamma, you must stop crying. It won't do any good and I want to know. Who said it was a stroke?"
"Dr. Fletcher, the company doctor. Thank goodness the company gives a doctor. What would we do, Anne, if they didn't? What we'll do anyhow—I don't know. And I never would have dreamed of a stroke. Papa, of all people! He isn't the build. He isn't the kind that gets strokes. He——"
"But momsy dear, he has it. Don't, don't go worrying about other things. And the company has a doctor. Let's just take one thing at a time."
At the calm assurance of Anne, Hilda's sobs lessened. She wiped her eyes on the corner of her apron and spoke more quietly.