He had been careful not to overwork; since he was improving, and took every thing moderately. But at last it was all finished,—the cold frames arranged for spring, the plants housed, the place tidy and in order.
The loss of the school had been a severe disappointment to Hal. He was casting about now for some employment whereby he might earn a little. If Mr. Sherman would only give him a few days' work, now and then, they could get along nicely; for Granny was a most economical manager, and, besides, there was eighty dollars in the bank, and a very small family,—only three of them.
Hal came home one day, and found Granny sitting over a handful of fire, bundled in a great shawl. Her eyes had a frightened look, and there was a blue line about her mouth.
"Why. Granny dear, what is the matter?" he asked in alarm, stooping over to kiss the cold wrinkled cheek.
"I d-d-don't know," the teeth chattering in the attempt to speak. "I b-b-lieve I've got a chill!"
"Oh, so you have, poor dear child!" and Hal was as motherly as the old gray hen outside. "You must go to bed at once. Perhaps you had better bathe your feet, and have a bowl of hot tea."
"And my head aches so! I'm not used to having headache, Hal."
She said this piteously, as if she fancied Hal, who could do every thing in her opinion, might exorcise the pain.
"I'm very sorry, dear," stroking the wrinkled face as if she had been a baby. "Now I'll put some water on to heat."
"O Hal, I'm so cold! 'Pears to me I never shall be warm again."