“Wear one of my dresses,” murmured Marjorie languidly as if the effort to talk were too much for her.
Lily beckoned to her visitor to follow her out of the room.
“We won’t bother her, Queenie. I’m sure she’ll be all right if we leave her alone.”
“I’m afraid she’s going to be sick!” wailed Queenie stifling her sobs.
All during dinner she was very quiet, as she sat beside Lily in Marjorie’s demure little gray dress, no one would have thought her to be any different from the college girls about her—only younger. Except for a short walk after the meal was over, she remained in the girls’ sitting room all evening, anxiously awaiting news of her captain.
The next morning she learned to her relief that Marjorie was better, that the fever with which she had been afflicted during the night had subsided, and that the doctor thought it would be safe for her to go home in a closed car. This news brought Queenie not only hope but occupation; for the next hour she busied herself by packing Marjorie’s things. At eleven o’clock the machine arrived.
In a few words Lily explained the situation about Queenie to Mrs. Wilkinson, and the latter gladly consented to take her along. Then she gave her attention to Marjorie.
The girl lay listlessly against her mother during the long ride, her head pillowed on her shoulder, her eyes closed. Mrs. Wilkinson was more worried than she would admit even to herself.
She found Queenie very useful when they reached home; the girl did not spare herself in any way when she found that she could really help. She knew, too, that Marjorie’s mother was grateful; as long as she could be of service to her captain she was content.
Yet, after the patient had been put to bed, and a doctor summoned, she found time suddenly very heavy on her hands. Jack was not at home; Mr. and Mrs. Wilkinson were too pre-occupied to talk to her, and she began to feel lonely. Dinner had been gloomy and tiring; she wondered how she would get through the evening.