Mary had spent the evening very anxiously. The formless future was a terror that she could not banish; she could evolve no definite line of action to sustain a hope.
She awoke from a troubled sleep with a startled sense of something having happened. After a few seconds, the cause was repeated. The silence was broken by the jangling of a bell, and nervous investigation proved it to be Mrs. Kincaid's.
The old lady explained that she was feeling very unwell—an explanation that was corroborated by her voice—and, striking a light, Mary saw that she was shivering violently.
"I can't stop it; and I'm so cold. I don't know what it is; it's like cold water running down my back."
Her companion looked at her quickly. "We'll put some more blankets on the bed. Wait a minute while I run upstairs!"
She returned with the bedclothes from her own room.
"You'll be much warmer before long," she said; "you must have taken a slight chill."
Mrs. Kincaid lay mute awhile.
"I've such a pain!" she murmured. "How could I have taken a chill?"
"Where is your pain?"