"Faith, I am very much worried about Jimmie. He is lying down."
"Well, what of it?" I said, with unintentioned brutality. "Does he always sit up that you seem so surprised?"
She looked at me reproachfully.
"He always sits up when he is well," she said, gently.
"Is he ill?" I exclaimed, dropping my gardening shears and hastily wiping my hands on my apron. "Can I do anything for him? Does he need a doctor? I'll go right up."
Mrs. Jimmie coloured all over her soft creamy face. She laid her hand on my arm.
"Don't be offended, will you, dear?" she begged, "but—Jimmie—you know how unreasonable sick men are—"
She paused helplessly.
I waited.
"Well, out with it! What does he want?"