"I say, you seem a bit cantankerous. What's come to you? Well, good-bye, and I advise you to hold your tongue."
Marigold entered the front door, and became aware of loud groans. The sound frightened her. Groan after groan issued from the kitchen. She shut the front door and went into the kitchen. Mrs. Plunkett was alone, crouching on the floor in a heap.
"Mother! Why, mother, what's the matter?"
No answer came, and she tried to raise Mrs. Plunkett, but the attempt was resisted.
"Mother, you can't stay here. Get up, and tell me what's wrong. Would you like a cup of hot tea?"
"Don't want—nothing," was all she could hear.
"But you do; I am sure you do. Let me see your face." She managed to obtain a glimpse, and saw no marked difference. Mrs. Plunkett had constantly of late looked sallow and ill. "Try to get, up and sit on this chair, and tell me what's wrong."
By dint of persuasion and pulling, Marigold brought about the desired move.
"Now tell me, what is it?" she asked; and to her amazement, Mrs. Plunkett burst into sobbing.
"I can't do no more! I've kep' up till now, and I can't, do more. It's killing me, and I'm—just beat. I'll have to—give in!"