She was a very miserable princess. She had felt ill enough as she lay on her comfortless bed, but she felt far worse now as she tried to sit upright on the hard chair, with its straight, uneasy back. Her limbs ached, her head throbbed, and every now and then she was conscious of a sick, giddy sensation, when the room seemed to go round with her, and she had to clutch at the chair to keep herself from falling. If only she had had a mother to care for her, and could have felt the comfort of a mother's love in the sore depression which was the result of weakness!
Mrs. Kay was well-meaning; but since she knew the young patient to be out of danger, her manner had grown stern again. Her better self, the self of long ago, had re-asserted itself during the days when Prin needed to be watched and tended from hour to hour; but already the good influence was past. Evil habits had resumed their sway over her. She was the "cross old woman" again, and when she was not at the laundry, where she earned her living, she was drinking in the public-house over the way.
Bert was kneeling by the fire, dividing his attention between a small saucepan, which was simmering on the hob, and his sister, on whom, from time to time, he cast glances expressive of anxiety.
"Do you feel better, Prin?" he asked, not for the first time.
"I do wish you wouldn't keep asking me if I feel better," she answered pettishly; "I feel worse, I tell you, a great deal worse than I did when I was in bed. Can't you believe me?"
"But you can't really be worse," said Bert, seeking to reassure himself. "The doctor says you are better, and Mrs. Kay says so, so you must be better."
"I suppose they know my feelin's better than I do," replied the Princess scornfully; "I tell you I am worse, and I ought to know, I should think."
"Well, p'raps you'll feel better to-morrow," said Bert cheerfully.
"No, I shan't; I shall never feel well again. I only wish I was dead."
"Oh, Prin!" exclaimed Bert reproachfully. "When I want you so much to live! What could I do without you?"