“Oh—that—was—good,” murmured Marguerite, very faintly; “that—was—relief.”
And though she was very weak, weak almost unto death, she seemed to suffer less from oppression and difficulty of breathing.
Roma administered a restorative, and told her not to speak or move again for some time.
Then Roma looked at Owlet, who was sitting very still on the other side of the chair, holding her mother’s hand and looking up into Roma’s face with large, solemn eyes.
“Do not be distressed, my dear. It is over now,” the lady said.
“Oh, I’m not. It does her good. She says it does. She had it once before, and it did her good. She said it did. Only she is so weak after it,” the child replied.
It required all Roma’s self-command to keep up a cheerful countenance. She knew better than the child, of course, and even better than the child’s mother, what these hemorrhages meant, and what the relief they brought suggested.
From this time forward she was, if possible, even more careful, more attentive and more tender to the sufferer than ever before.
Marguerite was extremely weak in body, but not the least depressed in mind. She talked only of recovery and of going to the country.
“I feel so light,” she said, “since I got relieved of all that bad blood that oppressed my chest. I shall get well now. This is only the last of January, and I shall have plenty of time to get well and strong before the first of April. And, oh, my little idiot will see the flowers burst into bloom! Do you know she was never in the country in her life, and never saw a growing rosebush, except in a pot?” So she would talk.