“No, thank you, I won’t sit down,” she said, in answer to Lois’ invitation. “I just ran over to see if you could let me have a little cough medicine for William to-night, he has a little tickle in his throat that keeps him coughing, I knew it was no use telling him to get any medicine, so I said to Bertha, ‘Bertha, I’m just going to run over to Mrs. Alexander’s and see if she can lend me a spoonful of cough mixture.’ I’ll have my bottle renewed to-morrow.”
“I’m sorry,” said Lois, wondering at her power of suspending a heartbreak, “but we haven’t a drop left in the house.”
“There is so much bronchitis around now,” continued Mrs. Snow, oblivious of the fact that the same impetus that had brought her as far as the Alexanders’ would have taken her to the druggist’s. “No, thank you; I can’t sit down.”
She stood by the mantel in a drooping attitude that gave her a plaintive effect, in combination with her soft crinkled black garments and her small white, delicate, finely wrinkled face. Mrs. Snow had, as a usual thing, only two tones to her voice—the plaintive and the inquisitive; the former was in evidence now.
“There is so much bronchitis around now. I think if you can take hold of it at the first beginning, with a little cough medicine, when it’s just a tickle in the throat, you can often save a great deal.”
“I suppose you can,” said Lois. She felt a vague duty of conversation. “Isn’t William well?”
His mother shook her head. “No, my dear, not at all, though he will not own it. I ask him every time he comes in the house how he feels, and sometimes he won’t even answer me.” She heaved a sigh. “You’re not looking well yourself, Mrs. Alexander; you mustn’t take care of the children too hard.”
“Oh, nothing ever hurts me,” said Lois in a hard voice.
“I’m glad they’re so nearly well. I met Mr. Alexander to-night on his way back to town. It was a pity you couldn’t have gone with him; if you had sent for me, I could have come and stayed with the children as well as not.”
“Oh, thank you,” said Lois.