“I can’t, Patricia. You don’t know how sick mother is. I wouldn’t leave her for anything.”
“Oh, botheree! You’ve just gone and spoiled all my good time!”
Polly heard the receiver slammed on its hook. She sat for a minute wondering if she could say anything to amend matters, but finally turned away. Patricia’s vexation was never lasting.
She listened at the foot of the stairs, and then tiptoed up. Her mother lay as if asleep, and she crept noiselessly into her own room.
Outside the prospect was cheerless. Few people and fewer teams were abroad. Wind and snow were in command, beating the window panes, thrashing the bare trees, whirling round house corners with a shriek and a roar. Polly turned from the cold tumult feeling strangely desolate. She read and wandered about by turns, wondering if ever there were any other afternoon so long. At last a sound from her mother’s room sent her thither. Mrs. Dudley was sitting on the edge of the bed.
“Is it worse?” Polly faltered.
A murmured affirmative was the only answer.
“I wish you would go to the medicine closet,” her mother said feebly, when the pain had lessened, “and get a little round bottle at the right-hand end of the second shelf.”
Polly was off like a sprite, barely waiting for directions.