"Don't you think you ought to have a doctor?"
"A doctor? No. I don't believe in doctors. I've told you so before."
Keeping a safe distance from the bed, Melina surveyed her grandmother meditatively. "What'll become of you if you get worse?" she asked presently; "you may die, you know."
"Die!" Mrs. Berryman shrieked forth the word with an angry glance at her granddaughter.
"Yes," nodded Melina, "and then you'd have to be buried, of course. I was wondering—would it have to be a parish funeral, with the workhouse hearse, and—"
"You wicked, cruel girl!" broke in Mrs. Berryman. "How dare you talk like this to me! I'm not going to die—not now, at any rate; but if I did, what do you think would become of you?"
Melina reflected for a minute, then replied: "I suppose I should go to the workhouse—I don't know that I'd altogether mind. Mrs. Jones said the other day that I should be better off in the workhouse."
"The impertinent, interfering creature! And you—oh, you are an ungrateful girl! After all I 'ye done for you, to talk like that! Haven't I given you shelter and food for more than ten years, and yet I don't believe you'd care if I was dead and buried!"
"No," admitted Melina frankly, "I don't believe I should. You've never been kind to me, Gran; often you've beaten me something cruel, you know you have! Why, my back and arms are sore and covered with bruises now from the beating you gave me last week!"
"I'm a bit heavy-handed, perhaps," Mrs. Berryman admitted hastily, "but you're enough to aggravate a saint sometimes, Melina. When I beat you, it's for your good—to make you a better child."