When school was dismissed, the storm was increasing, and Polly rode home beside her cousin in the limousine.
She found the back door unlocked, but the kitchen was empty, and there were seemingly no preparations for dinner. She hastened from room to room, and finally went upstairs.
“What is the matter?” she asked in dismayed tone, for her mother was lying on her bed, white with suffering.
“It came on suddenly—this pain.” She put her hand to her forehead, moaning.
Polly stood quite still, distress in her face. She waited until the spasm had passed, and then said gently, “Can’t I get you something?”
“No. It is that neuralgia over my eye. I have had it before, but never like this. The medicine doesn’t seem to take hold. If it isn’t better soon, I’ll have to try something else.”
“I wish father were home. Shan’t I call Dr. Rodman?”
“Oh, no! It is growing easier. Run down and eat your dinner; I left it in the oven.”
“Have you had yours?”