“Oh, poor Henry!” she said. “Here, I’ll take care of him.”
Mr. Knapp stepped back, self-effacingly, and with relief. She picked the child up bodily in her strong arms and carried him into the bedroom where she laid him on the bed. In an instant she had whisked out a basin which she held ready with one hand. “Bring me a wet washcloth, cold,” she said to her husband, “and a glass of water.” When it came she wiped Henry’s lips clean, so that with a sigh of relief he closed his mouth; she held the glass to his lips, “Rinse out your mouth with this, dear. It’ll make you feel better.” When the next spasm came, she supported his forehead firmly, laying his head back on the pillow afterwards; and, sprinkling a little eau-de-cologne on a fresh handkerchief, she wiped the cold sweat from his face.
To lie down had relieved the strain on Henry. The eau-de-cologne had partly revived him. He began to look less ghastly; he began to feel less that this time he was really going to die. He drew strength consciously from his mother’s calm self-possession. Nobody could take care of you like Mother when there was something the matter with you, he thought.
Mother now turned to inspect the contents of the basin. “What ever can have upset Henry this time? I planned that supper specially for him, just the things he usually digests all right.”
A pause. Then, “What can those dark brown crumby lumps be?” she asked aloud. “We didn’t have anything like that for supper.”
Henry rolled his eyes at his father, and then closed them, weakly, helplessly.
His father said from the door, briefly, “We met Mattie when we were at Wertheimer’s and she gave each of the children a cookie.”
“Store cookies?” asked Henry’s mother, more with an exclamation point than a question.
“The regular ginger cookie ... a small one,” said her husband.
“Oh,” said Mrs. Knapp.