"I won't go down to dinner," was her thought. "I'll burst upon father in the morning like a new being. Won't he be surprised?"
Chapter VI
A Night of Misery
"Man on the dubious waves of error tossed,
His ship half foundered and his compass lost,
Sees, far as human optics many command,
A sleeping fog, and fancies it dry land:
Spreads all his canvas, every sinew plies,
Pants for it, aims at it, enters it, and dies."
—Truth. Cowper.
The night was warm, and Beatrice found her poultice exceedingly uncomfortable. She had heaped the leaves on a clean cloth, mashed them to a pulp, spread the mass between two other cloths through which were cut small holes for the eyes and nostrils, and then, with a resolution worthy of a better cause, bound the whole upon her face.
The juices of the crushed leaves soon wet the mask through and through, making her face wet and sticky. The greenish odor of the weed was sickening, and the poor child found her condition unpleasant to say the least. She tossed restlessly from side to side in the vain effort to find sleep, but slumber fled her call. The night wore on, and the mask became so oppressive that it seemed to stifle her.
"I can not stand it," she exclaimed at last, springing out of bed. "I can not! I shall smother."