"Then you know how to help me with the bandages?" the doctor said.
"Oh, yes, I remember quite well."
By the time that the arm was set, and the patient helped into his room by the doctor and Eliza, Missy had decided that Mr. Andrews bore pain pretty well for a man, and that the doctor was even stupider than she had thought. She also arrived at the conclusion that the whole situation was as awkward as possible, when the door closed upon the object of her solicitude, and she realized that she could do him no further good. It was only then that she became aware that she was deeply interested in the case. To do her justice, if it had been Eliza's arm she would have suffered a pang in giving it up. She was naturally a nurse, and naturally enthusiastic. She had made up her mind to disregard the doctor's orders totally and give the patient homeopathic treatment, according to her lights. But here was conventionality coming in. She must give him up, and he was no doubt to be shut up in that room for a day or two at least, to be stupefied with narcotics, and then dosed with tonics. Missy clenched her little tired hands together. Why could Eliza go in and take care of him, and she not? She could not influence him through Eliza, or Melinda, or the waitress. She must give up conventionality or homeopathy. It was a struggle, but conventionality won.
CHAPTER XIII.
MINE HOST.
Of this she was very glad the next morning: conventionality is best by daylight. She woke with a feeling that it was exceedingly awkward to be in Mr. Andrews' house, and to have no house of her own to go to. When she came down-stairs, Eliza was just putting Mr. Andrews' breakfast on a tray. She said he had had no sleep, and seemed to be uncomfortable. The breakfast-tray did not look very inviting, so Missy reconstructed it and sent it in, brightened with some white grapes that the gardener had just brought to the door, and three or four soft-looking roses, with the dew upon them.
"Tell Mr. Andrews I hope he will let us know if there is anything we can do for him," she said, half ashamed, as Eliza went up-stairs with the tray.
By this time Miss Varian had come down-stairs, and Goneril, very tired and cross, twitched some chairs and a footstool about for her; and Anne, looking oddly out of place, came in to know if she should carry Mrs. Varian's breakfast up to her. It was all very strange and uncomfortable. The servants had evidently spent much of their time in talking over the incidents of the fire, and Melinda was late with her breakfast. Missy couldn't imagine where they had all slept; but here they all were—two cooks in the kitchen, two waitresses in the dining-room, two maids in the parlor, and no breakfast ready. Miss Varian felt very irritable; the children had waked her by five o'clock with their noise, and she could not go to sleep again. The absence of her usual toilet luxuries exasperated her, and all the philosophy which she had displayed the night before forsook her. She scolded everybody, including Mr. Andrews, who was to blame for having such a hard bed in his spare room, and the cook, who was so late in getting breakfast ready. Missy disdained to answer her, but she felt as cross, in her way. The children, who had been sent out of doors to allow Miss Varian to go to sleep again, now came bursting in, and made matters worse by their noise. They were full of news about the fire, and, to judge by their smutty hands and aprons, had been cruising round the forbidden spot.