“Oh, what’s the matter!” she cried.
“We’ll bring her round; don’t worry,” he replied evasively, “but it won’t be in a week, or in a month. She needs care and nursing. And you’ll have to see that she doesn’t go down the stairs,” he added. “She’s not to leave that floor for the present.”
Minnie stopped long enough to see how he handled Bess, over that awful rut near the gate; then she flew upstairs.
“Grandma!” she entreated, “do tell me what’s wrong!”
But the old lady refused to discuss it.
“Don’t fret, child,” she said. “I’ll do very well.”
“But it worries me so dreadfully not to know.”
The old lady remained firm. Some obscure sense of pride informed her that it was not fitting and proper to discuss the physical body with one’s grandchild. She would only admit that her heart was not as strong as it might be....
She didn’t seem particularly ill; she sat propped up in bed, knitting, quite cheerful. It did not occur to Minnie that the poor old thing was worn out, that the organism which had worked without ceasing for seventy-five years was in need of rest—eternal rest.
She knocked vigorously on the bedroom door, which Frances insisted upon keeping locked. Frances let her in with a very bad grace, which she ignored.