"Who can it be?" she said to herself, for Mrs. Caryll had given strict orders that in case of any infection about Hoodie herself, none of the other servants were to be with her. Lucy stopped a minute to listen. The voice was Hoodie's own. She was kneeling in a corner of the room, and the words Lucy overheard were these—
"Maudie is worser," Hoodie was saying, "Maudie is worser, and if she keeps getting worser she'll die. And it wasn't Maudie's fault that she got the affection fever. It was Hoodie's fault. Oh, please, dear God, make Maudie better, and Hoodie won't mind if she gets the fever, 'cos it was her fault. Hoodie's been so naughty, and poor Maudie's good. And everybody loves Maudie, but nobody can love Hoodie. So please, dear God, make Maudie better," and then she ended in her usual fashion—"For Jesus Christ's sake. Amen."
Lucy stood holding her breath at the door. When she saw that Hoodie got up from kneeling and sat quietly down on her chair again, she ventured to enter the room. Hoodie looked at her rather suspiciously.
"Lucy," she said, with a touch of her old imperiousness, "I think you should 'amember to knock at the door."
"Very well, Miss Hoodie," said Lucy meekly, for somehow she could not have helped agreeing with whatever Hoodie chose to say, "I'll not forget again."
Hoodie sat quite quiet, still leaning her head on her hands, doing nothing and seeming to wish for nothing.
"Are you not well to-day, Miss Hoodie?" Lucy asked at last.
"Yes," said Hoodie, "I'm kite well, and I think Maudie'll be better to-morrow."
But all day long she continued very, very quiet, and once or twice Lucy wondered if she should let Hoodie's mother or Martin know how strange the child seemed.
"I'll wait till to-morrow, any way," she decided. "It seems a shame to trouble them more to-day, for this has been much the worst day with Miss Maudie, I fancy. It's to be hoped it's the turn."