"I just know you are going to be sick, Connie,—I feel it in my bones. And walking out in that cold kitchen in your bare feet! You can just drink some more peppermint tea for that, now."
"Well, give me a cinnamon roll to go with it," urged Connie. "Peppermint is awfully dry, taken by itself."
Lark hooted gaily at this sentiment, but joined her sister in pleading for cinnamon rolls.
"No, wait until supper is ready. You do not need to help peel the potatoes to-night, Carol. Run back where it is warm, and you must not read if your head aches. You read too much anyhow. I'll help Lark with the potatoes. No, do not take the paper, Carol,—I said you must not read."
Then Lark and Prudence, working together, and talking much, prepared the supper for the family. When they gathered about the table, Prudence looked critically at Connie.
"Are you beginning to feel sick? Do you feel like sneezing, or any thing?—Connie's awfully naughty, papa. Her feet were just oozing water, and she sat there in her wet shoes and stockings, just like a stupid child.—Aren't you going to eat any supper, Carol? Are you sick? What is the matter? Does your head still ache?"
"Oh, it doesn't ache exactly, but I do not feel hungry. No, I am not sick, Prudence, so don't stew about it. I'm just not hungry. The meat is too greasy, and the potatoes are lumpy. I think I'll take a cinnamon roll." But she only picked it to pieces idly. Prudence watched her with the intense suspicious gaze of a frightened mother bird.
"There are some canned oysters out there, Carol. If I make you some soup, will you eat it?"
This was a great concession, for the canned oysters were kept in anticipation of unexpected company. But Carol shook her head impatiently. "I am not hungry at all," she said.
"I'll open some pineapple, or those beautiful pickled peaches Mrs. Adams gave us, or—or anything, if you'll just eat something, Carrie."