"Days! It seems—years," said Daisy, making a pause. "It has been so nice, Nursie. I thought I was a little child again, and you were taking care of me, only I was afraid it was a dream, and I didn't want to wake up. So I tried not."
"But you're awake now, my dear," said Mary.
"I suppose I am," murmured Daisy, shutting and opening her eyes with a rather distressed look. "My head is so strange, I feel as if I were somebody else. And my legs seem tied down to the bed. Isn't it funny?"
"Very funny," said Mary, with a smile to hide a heart-ache. "You mustn't mind being weak for a time."
"I suppose it was the rain made me so ill. It rained—hard," said Daisy slowly, with a puzzled expression, as if she were trying to recall something. Then she seemed quite tired out, and lay again as she had lain so much of late; only Mary Davis thought there was more of sleep and less of stupor about her unconsciousness.
Later in the afternoon the doctor came in. He was the Parish doctor, a stout quick-mannered man, sometimes a little apt to be sharp as well as quick; but, like most people, he was gentle with Daisy.
When she opened her eyes and smiled at him, he said, "Come, you are better to-day."
"Mayn't I see father, please?" asked Daisy.
"Well, yes, perhaps you may," said Mr. Bennet. "Do you think it would do you good?"
"No," said Daisy, without any hesitation. "I only think I ought."