“No doubt it will,” came the doctor’s reassuring reply.
“But please tell me what I can do!” begged the girl tremulously.
“Just whatever Mrs. Wilkinson tells you,” answered the physician. “And try to keep your spirits up,” he added, as he picked up his case.
After he had gone, Queenie looked desperately at Mr. Wilkinson, and repeated her question.
“Well, I should think that you could wait on Mrs. Wilkinson, as the doctor said, and answer the telephone when friends inquire about Marjorie, and write notes if she receives flowers, and help with the housework and marketing——”
“Oh, I can! I’m sure I can!” she cried, in relief to find that she could actually be of some service.
The hours dragged wearily by; Marjorie almost a ghost of her former self, lay on the bed, motionless and almost lifeless while the hideous disease worked its calamity in her system. Queenie tiptoed in and out of the room at Mrs. Wilkinson’s call, but Marjorie was totally unaware of her presence. At noon the nurse, a splendidly capable young woman, arrived and relieved the tired mother, who consented to go to bed. Queenie was thankful to go out and do the marketing; for a while at least she would be too busy to think.
Early in the evening Mr. Richards came to inquire after Marjorie, and, seeing how tired and nervous Queenie was, offered to take her out for a ride in the car. Queenie assented indifferently, unable to find much interest in anything.
“Isn’t she the least bit better?” he asked, as they started. “Not the tiniest bit?”
“No,” returned Queenie dismally. “If anything, she’s worse. The doctor’s afraid of pneumonia now. A night-nurse is coming on to-morrow.”