She had not come down till the middle of the day, and was suffering a good deal; but her face, though yellow and drawn, had lost much of its acidity. "Why, nothing I could do pleased you, and yet you're as good to me now—"
"Mother! Why, nothing I could do pleased you," broke from the surprised Marigold.
Mrs. Plunkett cast a puzzled glance backward.
"I'm sure I don't know," she said. "I know I used to feel so dreadful bad, I didn't know how to drag through the days; and I could have flown out at anybody. The day we went to the beasts' show—oh, dear! Part of the time I could get along; and then the pain came on, till it turned me sick, and I didn't half know what I was about, and the thought of going home all alone—oh dear me!"
"Mother, if you only had told! We thought you were just cross and vexed about something," said Marigold, tears in her eyes.
"I wasn't. I thought it as nice as could be of you to ask me to go—and if only I could have kep' on!—But it did seem hard, when I felt so awfully ill, to have all of you thinking of nothing but them snakes. And the pain was so bad."
"Oh, mother, if you only had told me!"
"Well, I see now that I had ought to—but I didn't feel as if I could. I thought you'd dislike me more than ever. I know you better now, Marigold!"
"Somebody outside. There's the bell, mother!"
And when Marigold opened the front door, she found Mrs. Heavitree, with a grave middle-aged gentleman, whom she at once guessed to be the expected Dr. Wilton.