“Your father does not seem quite well,” she said to Maria. “I have sent Irene and the cook for the doctor. If you don't mind, I wish you would get up and slip on a wrapper and come into my room.” Ida spoke softly for fear of waking Evelyn, whom she had directly seen in Maria's bed when she opened the door.
Maria sprang up, got a wrapper, put it on over her night-gown, thrust her feet into slippers, and followed Ida across the hall. Harry lay on the bed, seemingly unconscious.
“I can't seem to rouse him,” said Ida. She spoke quite placidly.
Maria went close to her father and put her ear to his mouth. “He is breathing,” she whispered, tremulously.
Ida smiled. “Oh yes,” she said. “I don't think it anything serious. It may be indigestion.”
Then Maria turned on her. “Indigestion!” she whispered. “Indigestion! He is dying. He has been dying a long time, and you haven't had sense enough to see it. You haven't loved him enough to see it. What made you marry my father if you didn't love him?”
Ida looked at Maria, and her face seemed to freeze into a smiling mask.
“He is dying!” Maria repeated, in a frenzy, yet still in a whisper.
“Dying? What do you know about it?” Ida asked, with icy emphasis.
“I know. He has seen three specialists besides the doctor here.”