CHAPTER XXIV.
THE GRANDMOTHER RELENTING.
The widow Allen sat by her kitchen fire, and a sterner, sadder woman never drew breath than she appeared on the day after that stormy visit from the doctor. She was waiting for him now. Her eyes, full of sullen thought, dwelt on the fire. Her feet were planted hard on the hearth—every thing about her looked unyielding and stiff—the high-backed chair, the full borders of her cap, and the white kerchief folded over her bosom—the very grief in her features seemed frozen there.
"Mother!"
This voice came from an inner room, the one which Mrs. Allen had occupied during her sickness. Its faint sweetness drew the old woman from her sombre mood. She arose and entered the apartment where her daughter lay.
The room was dimly lighted, for besides the usual blinds, a patch-work quilt, glowing with gorgeous colors, had been stretched across the only window it contained. As a great proportion of scarlet and green predominated in the quilt, it gave a richness to the atmosphere somewhat like that which streams through stained glass in a chancel window.
Katharine lay upon the bed among pillows, white as the snow drifting outside, and with a pretty cap shading her delicate features.
"Did you call, Katharine?" questioned the mother, in her clear, cold way.
"Yes, mother; my head begins to ache. A little while ago I was cold, now hot flushes are running all over me. Is this fever, do you think?"
The old woman lifted a corner of the quilt from over the window, and looked in her daughter's face.