"He hasn't come back yet. I wish he'd come. There's going to be a storm."
Mary lay against the cushion, her lips parted, breathing heavily.
"How pale you are! What ails you, child?" Mrs. Lowell asked with alarm.
"Nothing—the heat—"
"Don't you want the lemonade? I'll get it for you—"
"No, no—I'll go in a minute—"
But Mrs. Lowell rose with an effort, and went in. When she brought the lemonade, Mary sat up with a faint murmur of thanks, and drank it. Mrs. Lowell stood looking at her with watchful tenderness.
"There isn't anything the matter, is there? You ought to be careful, this hot weather, and not overdo, Mary."
"No, it isn't anything—"
Mrs. Lowell took the empty glass and went back to her chair.