"No, it's worse," I said, sighing. "She can't get over the trouble I was to—to him." And then I had one of my crying fits; and Mary comforted me. But when it was over I came back to what we had been talking about, and I said, "I do think I ought to see poor mother."
"Yes," Mary answered, slow-like, as if she wasn't sure. "Yes, that is what I feel; and Mr. Baitson has given leave. If you wish it, and if I think best—but he doesn't want you to be pressed. And he can't promise it will do her good. He does not believe it will do her harm."
"Is mother ill?" I asked.
"Not exactly ill," Mary said. "She isn't ill in body. The blow seems all to have fallen on her poor mind. I don't mean that she's out of her mind, you know. There's nothing to be frightened about; only she's in a kind of stupefied state, and one can't rouse her. She can't see things straight, and there's no getting certain notions out of her head. She is in what the doctors call a 'morbid' state. We hope she will be better by-and-by."
"I don't know what 'morbid' is," I said.
"I think it means that her mind is sick instead of her body," Mary said. "And we have to be very patient with her."
"May I see her?" I asked.
"Yes," Mary says again. "In a day or two, before you go away."
"Am I going?" I asked, still with the dull feeling that I didn't care.
"Yes, you are to have a change. I don't think you'll guess where," says Mary, trying to smile.