“She’s got through the night all right,” Rosie reported in the morning, her face shining with hope. “And they think she’s a little better.” But late the next afternoon, Rosie appeared again, her face dark with dread, “Laura’s worse again.”
Two or three days passed. Sometimes Laura was better. Oftener she was worse. Dr. Ames’s carriage seemed always to be driving into the Court.
“Annie says she’s dying,” Rosie retailed despairingly. “They don’t think she’ll live through the night. Oh, won’t it be dreadful to wake up to-morrow and find the crape on the door.”
The thought of what she might see in the morning kept Maida awake a long time that night. When she arose her first glance was for the Lathrop door. There was no crape.
“No better,” Rosie dropped in to say on her way to school “but,” she added hopefully, “she’s no worse.”
Maida watched the Lathrop house all day, dreading to see the undertaker’s wagon drive up. But it did not come—not that day, nor the next, nor the next.
“They think she’s getting better,” Rosie reported joyfully one day.
And gradually Laura did get better. But it was many days before she was well enough to sit up.
“Mrs. Lathrop says,” Rosie burst in one day with an excited face, “that if we all gather in front of the house to-morrow at one o’clock, she’ll lift Laura up to the window so that we can see her. She says Laura is crazy to see us all.”
“Oh, Rosie, I’m so glad!” Maida exclaimed, delighted. Seizing each other by the waist, the two little girls danced about the room.