“Yes, mum; I’ll go myself;” and Mrs Potts hurried away.
“There, my dear, you’ll be nicer and cooler now, and—Oh, dear me, what a lot of things I do want! Mrs Potts, call at the druggist’s for some eau-de-cologne—a big bottle mind.”
“Yes, mum,” came from below.
“Her poor head’s like fire. There, dear—there, my poor dear, let me lay your hair away from you; it will cool your head.”
“Please, Miss Burge, don’t let them cut off all teacher’s hair,” whispered Feelier from the other bed.
“No, my dear; not if I can help it.”
“I want to tell you I was so ungrateful when you spoke to me as you did, Mr Burge,” said Hazel in her low excited whisper.
“No, no, my darling, not ungrateful,” said little Miss Burge, in the soothing voice any one would adopt to a child.—“Poor dear, she don’t know what she’s saying.”
“I have lain here and thought of what you have done,” continued Hazel, “and how self-denying you have always been to me; and I was ungrateful for it all. I know now I was ungrateful.”
“She is wandering, poor girl!” said little Miss Burge, with a sob, as she busied herself in making the room more comfortable, after she had smoothed Hazel’s pillow and opened the window wide to give her more air. After this she turned her attention to poor Feelier, rearranging her pillow, and ending by bathing her face and hands, the poor girl uttering a sigh of relief and pleasure, sinking back afterwards upon her cool pillow, too weak almost to raise her arm.