She went down to the kitchen, hunted up what was required, laid the fire, and lighted it. It did not burn up well. She thought the wood must be damp, and found the bellows. She was on her knees, blowing away at the wood, and sending the blaze up into the coal, when some one came into the kitchen.
“Miss Ethel!”
It was one of the servants: Elizabeth. She had heard movement in the house, and had risen. Ethel explained that her sister felt ill, and tea was wanted.
“Why did you not call us, Miss Ethel?”
“You went to rest late, Elizabeth. See how I have made the fire burn!”
“It is not ladies’ work, miss.”
“I certainly think ladies should put on gloves when they attempt it,” merrily laughed Ethel. “Look at my black hands.”
The tea ready, Ethel carried a cup of it to her sister, with some dry toast that they had made. Sarah Anne drank the tea, but turned with a shiver from the toast. She seemed to be shivering much.
“Who was so stupid as to make that? You might know I should not eat it. I am too ill.”
Ethel began to think that she did look unusually ill. Her face was flushed, shivering though she was, her lips were dry, her heavy eyes were unnaturally bright. She gently laid her hands, washed now, upon her sister’s brow. It felt burning, and Sarah Anne screamed.