“You can’t,” said Janet, “for there’s nothing for you to eat, and nurse and Susan are as savage as Carribee islanders.”
This last argument was convincing. The children threw their flowers into Janet’s arms, gave their hands to Miss Ogilvie, and Babie between her two brothers, scampered off, while Miss Ogilvie uttered her griefs and regrets.
“My mother would like to see you,” said Janet; “indeed, I think it will do her good. She told me to bring you in.”
“Such a day of fatigue,” began Mary.
“That and all the rest of it,” said Janet moodily.
“Is she subject to headaches?”
“No, she never had one, till—” Janet broke off, for they had reached her mother’s door.
“Bring her in,” said a weary voice, and Mary found herself beside a low iron bed, where Carey, shaking off the handkerchief steeped in vinegar and water on her brow, and showing a tear-stained, swollen-eyed face, threw herself into her friend’s arms.
But she did not cry now, her tears all came when she was alone, and when Mary said something of being so sorry for her headache, she said, “Oh! it’s only with knocking one’s head against a mattress like mad people,” in such a matter-of-fact voice, that Mary for a moment wondered whether she had really knocked her head.
Mary doubted what to say, and wetted the kerchief afresh with the vinegar and water.