“Oh, Frank!” she exclaimed, bursting into tears. “Mother’s been bleeding at the lungs, and she looks so white. I’m afraid she’s very sick.”
“Boys,” said Frank, turning to his companions, “I must go home at once. You can get some one to take my place, my mother is very sick.”
When Frank reached the little brown cottage which he called home, he found his mother in an exhausted state reclining on the bed.
“How do you feel, mother?” asked our hero, anxiously.
“Quite weak, Frank,” she answered in a low voice. “I have had a severe attack.”
“Let me go for the doctor, mother.”
“I don’t think it will be necessary, Frank. The attack is over, and I need no medicines, only time to bring back my strength.”
But three days passed, and Mrs. Fowler’s nervous prostration continued. She had attacks previously from which she rallied sooner, and her present weakness induced serious misgivings as to whether she would ever recover. Frank thought that her eyes followed him with more than ordinary anxiety, and after convincing himself that this was the case, he drew near his mother’s bedside, and inquired:
“Mother, isn’t there something you want me to do?”
“Nothing, I believe, Frank.”