“Ruth,” called Peggy from the pantry, “just help me with these sandwiches, will you?” They were coming home for the midday meal, but Peggy had determined to carry along a few sandwiches, as country-grown appetites seemed independent of the limitations of those appetites with which she was best acquainted.
Ruth rose to obey. But her indisposition was becoming more than a match for her will. She was half way across the room, when she halted, swayed, and crumpled up in a little helpless heap. Graham was too late to save her from falling, but he had her in his arms almost as soon as she touched the floor, and carried her to the couch, turning pale himself at the sight of her colorless face.
From all directions the girls came running. As usual, Peggy took command.
“She’s fainted, Graham, that’s all. Bring some water. We must get the sofa cushions out from under her head. Bring that palm-leaf fan, Amy. There, she’s coming to already.”
The eyelids of the forlorn heroine had indeed fluttered encouragingly. A moment later Ruth opened her eyes. As her languid gaze travelled around the circle of faces, she saw consternation written on each one. Peggy patted her hand tenderly.
“Don’t try to speak, darling. You fainted, that’s all.”
“Could you drink a little water, dearie,” coaxed Priscilla, bending over her, glass in hand.
“Here, let me lift her.” Graham rushed forward, thankful for the opportunity to do something, as he found the sense of helplessness characteristic of his sex in all such crises extremely galling.
Ruth felt it incumbent on herself to relieve the general anxiety. “It’s only one of my headaches,” she explained faintly. “I ought to have given up to it. But I hated to spoil Graham’s last day.”
There was a little chorus of mingled disapproval and admiration. “You dear plucky thing!” cried Peggy. “And here I’ve been ordering you around all the morning. Those pan-cakes must have been torture.”