'Dear me, doctor,' said grandmother, 'don't you go and shake your head. Surely she'll be well enough to go in a week or ten days. Or maybe a fortnight or three weeks, doctor,' she added, as she saw that he looked very grave.
'My good woman,' said the doctor, 'you don't know how ill she is! It is only a question of time now.'
'You don't mean to say, doctor,' said grandmother, 'that she won't get better?'
'She may live a week,' said the doctor, as he put on his hat, 'but I do not think she will live so long.'
Poor old grandmother, it was a great downfall to her hopes; she had thought, and hoped, and believed, that the country air would soon make John Henry's wife well again, and now she was told that she had only a few days to live.
She could not go upstairs with such news as that. So she bustled about the kitchen, pretending to be busy, washing up the tea-things, and sweeping the fireside, and stopping every now and then to wipe away the tears that would come in her eyes. And all this time Poppy's mother was waiting, and listening, and wondering why grandmother did not come to tell her what the doctor had said.
At last she could wait no longer, but rapped on the floor with the stick which grandmother had put by her bedside.
Slowly, very slowly, the old woman went upstairs. But even when she was in the bedroom, she did not seem inclined to talk, but began to wash Enoch and Elijah, and never turned her face towards her daughter-in-law, lest she should see how tearful her eyes were.
'Grandmother,' said Poppy's mother at last, 'tell me what the doctor said.'
'He won't let me take you away, my lass,' said grandmother, shortly.