So Gertrude Merriam accepted her room all unconsciously, and rejoiced in its brightness. The baby was lying before the window of her own room when Gertrude entered. It moved a listless hand as she knelt beside it.
"You little darling creature!" she exclaimed and Elisabeth gave her infrequent smile as if she knew that woman's love and science were going to work together for her.
CHAPTER IV
ELISABETH MAKES FRIENDS
Under Miss Merriam's skilful care Elisabeth of Belgium slowly climbed the hill of health. She had grown so weak that she required to be treated like a child much younger than she really was. Miss Merriam gave her extremely nourishing food in small amounts and often; she made her rest hours as long as those of a baby of a year and her naps were always taken in the open air, where she lay warmly curled up in soft rugs like a little Eskimo. At night she and her care-taker slept on an upper porch where she drew deep draughts of fresh air far down into the depths of her tiny relaxed body.
"Ayleesabet"—everybody adopted her own pronunciation—was napping in Dicky's old perambulator on the porch of Dorothy's cottage one Saturday morning early in December. The Ethels, their coat collars turned up and rugs wrapping their knees, were keeping guard beside her. Both of them were alternately knitting and warming their fingers.
"When she wakes up we can roll her down the street a little way," said Ethel Blue.
"Did Miss Merriam say so?"