“I don’t know, Dolly,” and the poor lady looked sadly distraught. She was not an interesting invalid in appearance. She had on an old grey flannel wrapper, and her hair was untidy. A bowl of broth, cold,—and one or two bottles were on her table, and the whole room had an unkempt, uncared-for air. “You see,” she went on, “I didn’t know I had heart trouble, and it worries me terribly.”
“Do you know it yet?” asked Dolly. “Have you had a doctor?”
“I’ve sent for him, but he hasn’t come yet. But several people have called or telephoned, and they all speak of my heart attack, so I think it must have been that.”
Dotty looked very serious, and blushed a little as she realised to what a pass their thoughtless joke had brought the teacher.
“Miss Partland,” Dolly went on. “I don’t believe it was your heart, or you’d be sicker now. You don’t feel bad, do you?”
“N-no,—I guess not,—I can hardly tell.”
“Well, you look real well to me—”
“Oh, do I? I’m glad to hear you say so. I thought myself, if it were anything serious, I’d feel worse than I do. I haven’t any real pain, you know.”
“That’s good; and I believe all you want is to brace up and forget it. Forget that little bother of yesterday, I mean.”
“Say, Miss Partland,” broke in Dotty, “won’t you let me do your hair in a new way that I’ve just tried on mother’s? I often do her hair for her, and she says it rests her a lot. And this new way—”