“Aunt Marion, I had better go to a hospital.”
I came to her side and asked, “Why?”
“I think I am going to be ill; and I shall only be a trouble. I can’t bear to be a trouble.”
I hardly knew what to say. Suppose it were really the right plan! After a pause, I remarked, “This may prove to be nothing.”
“O no—it is inflammation,” she said faintly. “I had it once before,—years ago,—and I was very very ill. If I am in a hospital, I shall be out of the way.”
“That is no reason,” I said gravely. “It is only a question whether we can do all that you would need.”
“It isn’t that I want to go,—of course. I do love Cherry,—and Uncle,—and—and—Jack is so good to me. But I had better go,—please—I don’t belong to you really,—and there’s nobody else—”
She broke into weeping, and sobbed hysterically, struggling with acute pain which wrung moans from her. “I don’t know how to bear it! I don’t know how to bear it!” passed her lips repeatedly, and soon that cry passed into another yet sadder,—“Oh, mother, mother! O if only mother were here!”
Coldness and jealousy went to the winds that hour. None was at hand to comfort the poor child: so the task of comforting fell naturally on me. Without any distinct intentions, I somehow found myself kneeling down beside the bed, drawing Maimie into my arms. There was first a startled backward movement on her part, and then she held me with a convulsive clutch. “O Aunt Marion, if only you could love me!” broke from her wildly, passionately.
“I do love you, Maimie,” I said; and I spoke truly, though till that minute it hardly had been truth.