“Yes, I’m safe now,” said Aunt Mary, “but—” she looked very earnest—“but, oh, my Granite, how I did need that white fuzzy stuff to drink this morning. I never wanted nothin’ so bad in all my life afore.”
Janice stood by the bed, her face full of regret that Aunt Mary had known any aching void.
Aunt Mary grew yet more earnest.
“Granite,” she said, “you mind what I tell you. That ought to be advertised. I sh’d think you could patent it. Folks ought to know about it.”
Then she laid herself out in bed. “My heavens alive!” she sighed sweetly, “there’s nothin’ like home. Not anywhere—not nowhere!”
Chapter Sixteen
A Reposeful Interval
The next date upon the little gold and ivory memorandum card which hung beside Aunt Mary’s watch was that set for Burnett’s picnic, but its dawning found both host and guest too much attached to their beds to desire any fêtes champêtre just then.
Burnett was in that very weak state which follows in the immediate wake of only too many yachts,—and Aunt Mary was sleeping one of her long drawn out and utterly restorative sleeps.
Jack went in and looked at her.
“It did storm awfully,” he said to Janice, who was sitting by the window. The maid just smiled, nodded, and laid her finger on her lip. She never encouraged conversation when her charge was reposing.