“Nay, I’d have none but myself for that. I’ve slept a little now and again.”
Alma grasped the old woman’s wrinkled hand.
“How ever could you, Kata! And how can I ever thank you?”
“No need to try, my dear. ’Tis enough that you’re getting well again.”
“Have I—did I talk in my sleep at all?”
“Nay, nothing to worry about. Said this and that, maybe, but I paid no heed.”
Kata busied herself about the room, avoiding Alma’s eyes. “’Tis no use listening to feverish talk,” she added.
During the long days that followed, while Alma was in bed, Kata told her fairy stories about kings and princes, with some idea of diverting her thoughts. And Alma could not but smile at the old woman’s curious ideas as to the life of royalty; she did not, however, attempt to correct her impressions.
But once, in a pause, Alma broke in suddenly:
“Poor little mite—lying out there in the cold.”