Minnie threw herself back, pushing her chair with her feet. She rose and trailed sulkily across to the stove. As she moved a wisp of red hair, loosened from its coil, clung to her sallow neck. She was slip-shod and untidy.
She removed the porridge abstractedly. "What did he say?" she asked.
"He was extremely kind and sympathetic. He treated it as a disease. He said that in nine cases out of ten recovery is impossible."
"Well, I could have told you that. Anything more?"
"He says the chances are that he won't hold out much longer; his health must have broken up after all these years. I don't know how I can stand it, if it is. When I think of all the things that may happen. Paralysis perhaps, or epilepsy—that's far more likely. He's just the age."
"Is he? How awful! But, then, he'll have to go somewhere. You know we can't have him epilepsing all over the place here."
The old lady dropped her knitting to raise her hands.
"Minnie! Minnie! Have a little Trust. He may never come at all."
"He will. Trust him."
"After all," said Kate reflectively, "why should he?"