Jack’s arm, as well as my husband’s, was needed for the going upstairs. I could no longer keep down the fear that something must be really wrong. Maimie grew whiter at each step, and her short breaths of pain were almost sobs.
Cherry and I followed till the room was reached, and then the task of undressing followed. Maimie seemed to dread every movement; yet, on the whole, she bore up well, and did not complain. Only, when she was at last in bed, I heard a distressed moan of, “O I don’t know how to bear it! I don’t know how to bear it!”
“So bad still, Maimie?” asked Cherry.
“Not the pain only! It’s that too. But I wish—I wish—if only Aunt Marion would go!”
This was quickly hushed by Cherry, and I thought it wisest not to seem to have overheard.
Beyond things absolutely necessary in the household, little could be done that evening, except to tend Maimie. I could not flatter myself that such remedies as I was able to devise took much effect; yet we persevered in them, hoping for improvement on the morrow.
Night passed quietly to Robert and me, for Cherry would not disturb us. She had little or no sleep herself, for Maimie tossed and moaned all through the darkness. Towards morning, Cherry went down to the kitchen, where she lighted the fire and made a hot poultice. But still the pain continued; and when, at six o’clock, I stole into the room, I found Maimie suffering acutely, and Cherry sitting dressed on the bed supporting her.
“You ought to have called me, Cherry,” I said, when I gathered what the night had been. “I should have come in, but I was afraid of waking Maimie, if she were asleep.”
“Maimie would not let me, mother,” Cherry said gently.
I did not like Maimie’s look, or the burning hand which lay on the counterpane. She just lifted her eyes to mine, and then closed them again. But a little later, when I had sent Cherry downstairs to lay the breakfast-table, and was myself putting the bedroom straight, she said unexpectedly—