She turned over with a groan, lying still and worried.
"Have you tried a bag of hot salt?" asked Anne, after a few minutes' silence.
"Yes! I tried once or twice," replied the woman, "but you know it's a bit of extra trouble, and no one likes that."
"If you could tell me where to get a bit of red flannel I'll make one for you now," said Anne.
"The bag's here," said the woman, her face drawn and her mouth gasping.
She tried to feel under the pillow.
"Lie you still. I'll get it," said Anne. She drew out a bag of red flannel, evidently the remnant of an old flannel petticoat, for the tuck still remained like a grotesque attempt at ornament across the middle of the bag. The salt slid heavily to one end as Anne drew it out.
"The oven's still warm," she said opening the door and putting her hand inside. "I'll just slip it in for a few minutes."
"Well," said the woman, "there's not many cares about a bad-tempered, bed-ridden woman, but you're one of them that's been kind. I don't say much, but I know."
"You make me nearly cry," said Anne, drawing the bag out of the oven and feeling its temperature. Holding it against her chest, as if to keep in its heat, she drew back the bed-clothes and unbuttoned the flannelette night-gown of the invalid, laying the poultice against her wasted side. The woman gave a sob and lay still for a minute.
"It's a lot better," she said.