“Has Cap'n Lote come in yet?” inquired the housekeeper, faintly.
“Not yet, Rachel,” replied Mrs. Snow. “He'll be here in a minute, though. Albert's down, so you can begin takin' up the things.”
The head disappeared. A sigh of complete wretchedness drifted in as the door closed. Albert looked at his grandmother in alarm.
“Is she sick?” he faltered.
“Who? Rachel? No, she ain't exactly sick . . . Dear me! Where did I put that clean napkin?”
The boy stared at the kitchen door. If his grandmother had said the housekeeper was not exactly dead he might have understood. But to say she was not exactly sick—
“But—but what makes her look so?” he stammered. “And—and what's she got that on her head for? And she groaned! Why, she MUST be sick!”
Mrs. Snow, having found the clean napkin, laid it beside her husband's plate.
“No,” she said calmly. “It's one of her sympathetic attacks; that's what she calls 'em, sympathetic attacks. She has 'em every time Laban Keeler starts in on one of his periodics. It's nerves, I suppose. Cap'n Zelotes—your grandfather—says it's everlastin' foolishness. Whatever 'tis, it's a nuisance. And she's so sensible other times, too.”
Albert was more puzzled than ever. Why in the world Mrs. Ellis should tie up her head and groan because the little Keeler person had gone on a spree was beyond his comprehension.