"Miss Dale thought—" She seemed unable to proceed and stood swallowing. Celia straightened herself with a jerk.
"Oh, goody! We'll play tea-party, Uncle Joel. No, we'll play mother. You're my little sick boy, Uncle Joel, and I'll feed you. Give that to me, Mary."
Like a person hypnotized Mary advanced and delivered the steaming broth into Celia's extended hands. Setting the bowl firmly on one knee, Celia ladled out a generous spoonful.
"Open your mouth, darling, and swallow this nice broth. It'll make mama's little boy a big strong man."
The soup-spoon journeying in Joel's direction tilted dangerously. Half the contents splashed upon his cheek and ran in a greasy dribble down his neck. The remainder distributed itself impartially in the vicinity of his mouth, a few tantalizing drops finding their way between his parted lips.
"Land alive!" Mary made a horrified forward rush. "You're a-drowning
Mr. Dale. And look at you, wasting that nice soup, too."
Joel frowned and Mary drew back abashed, quailing before his disapproving glance.
"I guess if I was being drowned I'd have the sense to mention it. And nobody's going to the poor-house because a little soup gets spilled. Some of the professions are pretty crowded, Mary, but there's one where there's room at the top and at the bottom, too, and that's the one of minding your own business."
Poor Mary blushed till her proximity to things inflammable would have awakened justifiable fears of a conflagration. Joel gave his attention to his self-appointed nurse. "Steady now! Better take a little less to start with. That's right. Now steer her straight."
The second spoonful reached its destination without serious accident. Celia watched her patient as he swallowed and forgot the rôle she had assigned herself.