And Ann proceeded to inspect mantel-pieces, open cupboards and drawers, to Mattie's dismay.
"Yes, I see just how it be," she said, after her search had resulted in nothing satisfactory. "You're working yourself to death, and starving yourself to death, without saying anything to anybody. And that's gratitude for all my love for you—you who want to leave me alone in the world, with not no one to love."
"Why, my dear Ann, I'm not going to die."
"You're trying all you can—oh! you ungrateful gal!"
Mattie defended herself, and maintained that it was only one "lay up," but Ann Packet did not like the red spot on each cheek, the unnatural brightness of the eyes, and secretly doubted her assertion.
"I must go back now. I shall come to-morrow, first thing."
"I shall be well enough to-morrow, Ann."
Ann Packet kissed her and departed; half-an-hour afterwards, to Mattie's astonishment, she made her reappearance, accompanied by a tall, slim gentleman.
"There's the gal, sir. Now, please tell me what's the matter, and don't mind her a bit."
Mattie saw that it was too late to offer a resistance, and refrained, like a wise young woman, from "making a scene." The doctor felt her pulse, looked at her tongue, took the light from the table and held it close to Mattie's face.