“Don’t think of it now; they will be sorry enough by-and-by,” said Marcia. “Help me to get some bread and milk ready.”
She brought it up a few minutes later, steaming hot and tempting looking. The invalid was conscious again now, and her cheeks were flushed with the amount of brandy she had taken. She began to talk in a weak, excited manner.
“I had such a long sleep and got so dreadfully cold,” she said. “I thought I was climbing up and up a hill, and I could never get to the top. It was a horrid dream. Marcia, dear, is that you? How nice you look in your grey dress, so quiet looking.”
“Hush, Mrs Aldworth,” said the doctor, in a cheerful voice, “you must not talk too much just now. You must lie quiet.”
“Oh, doctor, I’ve been lying quiet so long, so many hours. Oh, yes, I remember—it was Molly. She had on a blue dress, a blue muslin and forget-me-not bows, and she looked so sweet, and she said the Carters were here—the Carters and—and—she was very anxious to go down to them. It was natural, wasn’t it, doctor?”
“Yes, yes. Aren’t you going to eat your bread and milk?”
“I’ll feed you, mother,” said Marcia.
She knelt by her and put the nourishment between the blue lips.
“You are such a good girl, Marcia; so kind to me.”
“Everybody ought to be kind to you,” said Marcia, “and everybody will be,” she murmured under her breath.