"Indeed you would—very likely," sneered the woman. "But stay, for what I care—you will be sure to catch the fever though; and that little doll, with long curls, let her stay, too. It's a sweet place, here, for children!"
"I don't want her to stay here—only let her come in once in awhile to see her poor mother—she is so young and so pretty; the fever takes those first, I am sure!"
"Well, let her come or go—only remember this, if you stay here it will be no baby play, but work—I'll make you work, let me tell you that!"
"I will work—oh, mother, if anything I can do will only save her! You don't know how hungry I was after you went away—and she fed me!"
"Well, feed her, then!" cried the woman, a little softened, "there is a cup, get some water and give her drinks!"
Mary Fuller took the tin-cup pointed out, and filled it with water. She went up to the patient with her gentle voice, and held the water to her lips. The poor woman drank greedily, and then Mary went about seeking for other means of comfort. The doctor had not yet seen his patient, so she could only act by her own feeble judgment. She found a large bowl, and filling it with water, bathed the neck and face and hands of the poor invalid. Then she saturated Isabel's handkerchief, and laid it moist and dripping upon the hot forehead.
"She is better—see, it does her good!" cried the child, with glad tears in her eyes, turning to Isabel, who stood by, weeping as if her heart would break, and trembling with a fit of terror that had seized her the moment she entered the room.
This cool ablution had indeed relieved the patient. She sighed deeply, and her mind seemed to change its tone. She was wandering in sweet and pleasant places, where fountains gushed high, and wild flowers shook and brightened beneath the soft rain-drops that fell around; nothing could be more beautiful than the words that denoted this bright change in her wanderings. Mary's heart thrilled to hear these words, for she knew that it was her hand that had created the paradise in which the sufferer fancied herself to be wandering.
Only once during the next twenty-four hours did Mary leave that humble bed; then it was to accompany Isabel to the matron, who kindly gave her a pillow, and allowed her to lie down on the carpet in her room. The poor child was completely worn out with fatigue and grief.
But Mary never left her watch for a minute. All the evening she sat by Mrs. Chester's couch, bathing the forehead of her benefactress, cooling the palms of her hands, and listening to the soft murmurs that fell from her lips.