The next afternoon she went to visit Hilary, who was ill, Mrs. Lowell reported. There was no hesitation now about her entrance. She walked into the house, majestic in her sweeping grey dress, and the widow received her gladly. Confidential relations had long since been established between them on the subject of the minister.
"He's up and dressed, though the doctor ordered him to stay in bed," the widow complained in a subdued voice. "And he won't take his chicken broth, that I made specially—"
"Well, bring it in and I'll see that he takes it," said Mary.
She knocked at the study door. A peevish voice said, "Oh, come in!"
Hilary was lying on the hard sofa, with a rumpled afghan over him. His head was swathed in bandages, his cheeks flushed with fever.
"Oh, it's you," he murmured apologetically. "I thought it was that old woman again."
Mary, laying aside her shawl, proceeded to spread the afghan more smoothly over him and to shake up his pillows. Then she took his wrist, her finger on the pulse.
"Why don't you stay in bed?" she enquired. "You have fever."
"Nonsense, no fever. I got tired yesterday, that's all."