"You shouldn't lace like that," she said, in horror.
"I don't lace," the sick woman breathed, "my waist is only—eighteen—inches—around. It's naturally—small. I guess if I could only get a little hot water to drink I would feel better."
Elizabeth found a one-wick kerosene stove so begrimed and choked with soot that she could scarcely light the sputtering wick, but thanks to her recent investigations in her grandmother's kitchen, she was able to heat a little water over it.
"A month ago I didn't even know there was such a thing as a one-wick kerosene stove," she thought. She caught sight of what at first glance looked like a small gray animal on the floor under the table. "It's nothing but a piece of moldy bread, the kind that poor Madget was afraid would crawl out on her. Oh, dear!"
"Where are the little girls?" she asked, as the sufferer sat up and drank the steaming water in the cracked blue cup that was the only china receptacle of any kind that Elizabeth could find.
"I wasn't able to get them any breakfast, so they went out to see if they could pick some blue berries."
"Madget is so little she ought to have milk in the morning." Elizabeth could not refrain from making this superfluous suggestion.
"Milk sours so." The spasm of pain that attacked her was of longer duration this time. Elizabeth began rubbing the afflicted area, and calling to Moses, who presently appeared, and gazed at his mother speculatively as she winced and writhed in agony.
"Go and get a doctor, Moses. Any doctor you know about."
"I don't believe in doctors," Mrs. Steppe breathed. "I—I believe in spirit healing. Get a medium."