“She is gone,” I said.
“Gone?”
“Did you never hear of such things as sick mothers?” asked Irais blandly; and we talked resolutely of something else.
All the afternoon Minora has moped. She had found a kindred spirit, and it has been ruthlessly torn from her arms as kindred spirits so often are. It is enough to make her mope, and it is not her fault, poor thing, that she should have preferred the society of a Miss Jones to that of Irais and myself.
At dinner Irais surveyed her with her head on one side. “You look so pale,” she said; “are you not well?”
Minora raised her eyes heavily, with the patient air of one who likes to be thought a sufferer. “I have a slight headache,” she replied gently.
“I hope you are not going to be ill,” said Irais with great concern, “because there is only a cow-doctor to be had here, and though he means well, I believe he is rather rough.” Minora was plainly startled. “But what do you do if you are ill?” she asked.
“Oh, we are never ill,” said I; “the very knowledge that there would be no one to cure us seems to keep us healthy.”
“And if any one takes to her bed,” said Irais, “Elizabeth always calls in the cow-doctor.”
Minora was silent. She feels, I am sure, that she has got into a part of the world peopled solely by barbarians, and that the only civilised creature besides herself has departed and left her at our mercy. Whatever her reflections may be her symptoms are visibly abating.