"I went out alone, and did not go on Main street."
"You would have been better employed in the kitchen—forever gadding! I don't want you in here—I'm sick of you and your brazen face!"
"What error to suppose that sickness softens, and predisposes the heart to repentance!" thought Ida. She went into the other room, and beckoned Mrs. Read. "The doctor was here this morning," she said; "and told me, privately, not to mind his irritability, nor to answer him, unless silence increased it. It is an ordinary symptom in neuralgic affections. We must be forbearing."
"There is a limit to everything," was Mrs. Read's response.
"True—but forbearance should last as long as the pain we would cure."
"That is your theory, Miss Ida. I am tired of the practice. You mean well, I have no doubt, but I am not a fit object for your charity."
The asperity was pointed at herself, rather than at her hearer, and Ida pondered upon her words and manner, often during the day.
"It did not agree with" Josephine "to sit up"—a constitutional weakness, loudly lamented, and encouraged, instead of overcome. Ida and Mrs. Read divided the vigil; the mulatto nurse, Sarah, sleeping in the apartment. Ida was to watch the latter part of the night. The patient was cross and restless, when she looked in upon him at bed-time—railing, and swearing and abusive.
"You want me dead!" he said to his wife; "but I won't die—to spite you. I shall live years, and years, and years, 'till you are a toothless hag, and walk with a crutch! Ha! ha!"
"He is delirious!" whispered Ida. "Let me stay with you!"