They marveled over it all a moment in silence. Then Marcia burst out: "Oh, Cecily, we've been so worried about you! We couldn't think why you didn't even take the letters any more. Have you been very ill?"
"Why, I don't know—I just feel horrid most of the time. My head aches a lot, and every once in a while I'm awfully cold, and then I seem to be burning up—"
"Why, I believe you must have malaria!" interrupted Marcia. "That's what Aunt Minerva has sometimes. You ought to go out more, and have fresh air and—sunshine—" She stopped suddenly, remembering the conditions. "But anyway, it isn't serious," she hurried on, after an embarrassed pause. "And you ought to have some quinine. I wonder if Miss Benedict would let us get it for you. I'll ask her, later." Then they hurried on to tell her how they had continued to send down a note every night, hoping that she would get it, and how they had feared that she might have gone away.
And Cecily, in return, told them how she had enjoyed the notes and gifts, but how guilty she had always felt about receiving them, especially when she had answered them.
"And I finished embroidering the boudoir-cap," she ended, "and—and I gave it to Miss Benedict."
"You did?" they both gasped.
"Oh, I hope you don't mind!" exclaimed Cecily, hastily; "but—but I felt as if I wanted to do something for her. She—I—I think I'm getting to like her—more and more."
"What did she say?" asked Marcia. "Was she pleased? I can't imagine her wearing such a thing."
"She looked at it and then at me—very strangely for a minute. Then she said: 'Thank you, child. I—I never wear such things, but I'll keep it—for your sake!'"
"Isn't that queer!" exclaimed Janet. "You thought she cared nothing about you!"