“The wisest plan would really be to go upstairs and lie on your bed,” I said at length.
“If you only would leave me in peace!” moaned the girl.
She yielded presently, however, so far as again to stand up, allowing us to help her. It was evidently no mere case of fancy, for her lips were quite colourless, and the sharp catches in her breath, though partly hysterical, told also of severe pain. I suggested her bedroom again, and proposed a hot fomentation, but she shuddered, and almost petulantly declined; so Cherry ran for pillows, and tried to place her comfortably on the sofa. I heard two or three times an impatient—“That won’t do—” and “Oh, don’t,” followed by a low-toned,—“I’m sorry I was cross, Cherry.”
Cherry answered this with a kiss.
“Better, Maimie?” she asked.
“No. It’s dreadfully bad, Cherry.”
I came near again, and asked,—“Where is the pain?”
A motion of her hand to her side was the only reply.
“Have you had it before to-day?”
“Not so badly. Please leave me alone.”