When I got home, I peeped in at Connie's door the first thing, and saw that she was raised a little more than usual; that is, the end of the conch against which she leaned was at a more acute angle. She was sitting staring, rather than gazing, out at the wild tumult which she could see over the shoulder of the down on which her window immediately looked. Her face was paler and keener than usual.
"Why, Connie, who set you up so straight?"
"Mr. Turner, papa. I wanted to see out, and he raised me himself. He says I am so much better, I may have it in the seventh notch as often as I like."
"But you look too tired for it. Hadn't you better lie down again?"
"It's only the storm, papa."
"The more reason you should not see it if it tires you so."
"It does not tire me, papa. Only I keep constantly wondering what is going to come out of it. It looks so as if something must follow."
"You didn't hear me come into your room last night, Connie. The storm was raging then as loud as it is now, but you were out of its reach—fast asleep. Now it is too much for you. You must lie down."
"Very well, papa."
I lowered the support, and when I returned from changing my wet garments she was already looking much better.