He turned his head away sharply. His fingers closed tightly on the yellow daffodils. Mary suddenly saw lying there before her, not a man, but a forlorn sick child. For the first time she knew the impulse to comfort this unhappiness, an impulse of tenderness. It frightened her, and she went out quickly, without a word.
Returning home, she found trouble and confusion. The Judge had been taken ill and Laurence had brought him home. Mrs. Lowell was there in the room, a messenger had been sent to try to find the doctor. The Judge was stretched out on his bed, unconscious, his face deeply flushed. Laurence, with Mrs. Lowell's aid, was trying to get some of his clothes off.
"He's had a stroke—just toppled over at his desk—I wish you'd been at home, Mary," said Laurence with sharp reproach. "I don't know what on earth to do for him—"
Silently Mary gave what help she could. They got his coat and boots off, loosened his shirt-collar, put a cold compress on his head. He was breathing heavily and the purple flush deepened, especially on the left side of his face. In her alarm, Mary still remembered the children and that it was the baby's nursing-time, and as there seemed nothing more to do, she left the room. Laurence followed her out.
"You remember he's complained of dizziness several times lately—I tried to have him see your father but he wouldn't, said he thought perhaps he'd been eating or smoking too much. At his age, you know, it's pretty serious—"
"He didn't look well this morning," began Mary, going into the dining-room, where the cook was looking after the children.
"Well, I should think you might have stayed at home, then—where were you?" asked Laurence irritably.
"Please put James in his pen," said Mary, taking the baby. "Hilda, you'd better see that there's plenty of hot water—the doctor may want it."
She carried the baby upstairs and sat down in a low chair in their room to nurse it. When Laurence came in the door, she said directly: