Olive appeared at Zelda’s door bearing a suit-case in her hand. A groan greeted her, as she paused in the doorway, blinking in the dim light of the room.
“Oh, Zee!”
Another moan, followed by a racking cough, and Zelda’s arms beat the covers as though in an agony of pain.
“Olive, have you come? I thought you would never get here!” and Zelda moaned. “Here I am all alone in the house and nobody to do anything for me. I didn’t think you would treat me that way,—and your own flesh and blood, too.”
Olive dropped the suit-case and drew near the bed.
“I’m burning with fever,” moaned Zelda. “It’s typhoid pneumonia, I’m sure. I read of it in the papers. Maybe it’s contagious. Most likely they will put a red sign on the front door so no one can get in.”
She extended her hand to Olive, who took it solicitously.
“You poor dear! When did you first feel it coming on?”
“Oh, I haven’t been well for several days, but I tried to bear up. I’m so miserable I don’t know what to do.”
“Mrs. Carr didn’t think you were so sick. She said you wouldn’t have a doctor.”