Flinging it open, Mr. Fenton, aided by Tory, carried in the woman who had never before crossed her own threshold in such a fashion.
“Don’t close the door, please; the room must be kept cool,” Tory demanded, when Memory Frean had been placed on the cot she herself had occupied so short a time before. If she had believed the long night difficult, how much worse had she known the truth! Not far away the friend, dearer to her than any other woman, was perhaps dying near her own door!
There was still hope, but little more than hope. How many hours Memory Frean had been seeking shelter there was no way to conjecture!
Tory realized that she had forgotten the first aid in the emergency that faced her uncle and herself. She could recall only this one fact: the change in the temperature must not be too decided. On Memory Frean’s table amid her most cherished books lay a Scout manual.
Tory’s hands seemed frozen and helpless as she searched for the desired page. After a hurried glance about the unfamiliar room, Mr. Fenton had disappeared, murmuring that he would return as soon as possible. He must in some way get word to the doctor. He appeared strangely annoyed that Miss Frean had no telephone. Tory had learned to understand that Mr. Fenton was often irritable when he was most deeply concerned and distressed.
His going made no especial difference. Alone Tory was struggling to remove Miss Frean’s stiff clothes, now wet and clinging from the change to the indoors.
Now and then she called her friend’s name, not expecting a response.
Sitting beside her what seemed an endless time, Tory continued rubbing her with rough cloths wet in cold water.
As Tory worked, her mind felt extraordinarily clear.
She recalled her first meeting with Memory Frean on the autumn road a little more than a year before, and the gift of the Indian talisman, an eagle’s feather.