THE CRISIS
And then the day came when the doctor said Patty had pneumonia. Rooms were darkened; nurses went around silently; Nan wandered about, unable to concentrate her mind on anything and Mr. Fairfield spent much of his time at home.
The telephone was continually ringing, as one friend after another asked how Patty was, and the rooms downstairs were filled with the gifts of flowers that the patient might not even see.
“What word, Doctor?” asked Mona Galbraith, as the physician came downstairs, one morning. The girls came and went as they chose. Always some one or more of them were sitting in the library or living-room, anxiously awaiting news.
“I think I can say she’s holding her own,” replied the doctor, guardedly; “if she had a stronger constitution, I should feel decidedly hopeful. But she is a frail little body, and we must be very, very careful.”
He hurried away, and Mona turned back to where Elise sat.
“I know she’ll die,” wailed Elise. “I just know Patty will die. Oh, it seems such a shame! I can’t bear it!” and she broke down in a tumult of sobbing.
“Don’t, Elise,” begged Mona. “Why not hope for the best? Patty isn’t strong,—but she’s a healthy little piece, and that doctor is a calamity howler, anyway. Everybody says so.”
“I know it, but somehow I have a presentiment Patty never will get well.”
“Presentiments are silly things! They don’t mean a thing! I’d rather have hope than all the presentiments in the world. Here comes Roger.”