“Just one. Then silence for an hour.”
“If that girl from Boston comes I’m going to have a fever–understand? I don’t want her up here. Now, that’s all there is about it.”
“Hush, small boy! You don’t know what is good for you. You must leave it to the doctor and me,” said Frances, but she kept her head turned from the bed so that Pratt would not see her eyes.
By and by Pratt waved his hand again like a pupil in school and even snapped his fingers to attract her attention.
“Please, teacher!” he begged when she looked up from the pad on her knee over which her pencil had been traveling so rapidly.
“I’m nurse, not teacher,” Frances said, firmly.
“Nurse, then. Is that the plan for the pageant you are writing?”
“A part of it,” she admitted. “Some ideas that came to me the time I went to Amarillo.”
“With the make-believe treasure chest?”