"A plague on my memory!" I exclaimed. "We were in the parlor, and Miss Warren was singing. Your mother spoke—would that I might hear her again!—it's all tolerably clear up to that time, and then everything is confused."
"Adah, how's this?" said Mrs. Yocomb reproachfully. "Thee was not to let Richard Morton talk."
"I only am to blame, Mrs. Yocomb: I would talk. I'm trying to get the past straightened out; I know that something happened the other evening when you spoke so beautifully to us, but my memory comes up to that point as to an abyss, and I can't bridge it over."
"Richard Morton, doesn't thee believe that I'm thy friend?"
"My mind would indeed be a total blank if I doubted that."
"Well, then, do what I ask thee: don't question, don't think. Isn't it sufficient to know that thee has been ill, and that thy life depends on quiet? Thee can scarcely lift thy hand to thy head; thy words are slow and feeble. Can't thee realize that it is thy sacred duty to rest and grow strong before taking up the cares and burdens that life brings to us all? Thee looks weak and exhausted."
"I am indeed weak enough, but I felt almost well when I awoke."
"Adah, I fear I can't trust thee as a nurse," her mother began gravely.
"Please don't blame her; it was wholly my fault," I whispered. "I'll be very good now, and do just what you bid me."
"Well, then, thee must take what I have prepared, and thy medicine, and sleep again."