"Sh!" nudged Mrs. Bonnyman at Miss Crilly's elbow.
Two youngish women entered the room. They were the superintendent and the matron.
Upstairs, meanwhile, Miss Juanita Sterling; in bed, and Polly
Dudley, seated on the outside, were having a familiar talk.
"I shouldn't think you'd want to die till God gave you something to die of," Polly was saying wistfully. "I think He must want you to live, or He would give you something to die of. Perhaps He has some beautiful work for you to do and is waiting for you to get well and do it."
"Polly, I cannot work! And there is no lack of things for me to die of!" Impatience crept into the sweet voice. "Being in prison is bad enough even with good health; but to be sick, wretched—the worst kind of sickness, because nobody understands!—and to grow old, too, grow old fast—oh, I wish God would let me die!" The little woman gave a sudden whirl and hid her face in the pillow.
"Don't, Miss Nita!" Polly's voice was distressed. She stroked the smooth, soft hair. "Don't cry! You're not old! You're not old a bit! And you're going to be well—father says so!"
"That won't take away the dewlap—oh!" cried Miss Sterling fiercely, "I don't want a dewlap!"
"Dewlap?" scowled Polly. "What's a dewlap?"
"Polly! You know!" came from down among the feathers.
"I don't!" Polly protested. "Is it some kind of—cancer?"