“Oh! Fay likes fussing with steam-kettles and mustard leaves,” said Diana, rather contemptuously.
“I don’t know if she likes it,” retorted Ruth, “but she’s a very clever little nurse, and as to Master Andrew, he’s the best patient I ever saw. Poor boy, how he did suffer and struggle for breath last night, and never a word of complaint.”
“Oh! he’s never half so horrid when he’s ill,” began Di; but by this time Ruth had gone, taking Marygold with her, to ensure that Faith’s belated night’s rest was not interrupted by any inroads from her usual small room-fellow.
“Poor Andrew,” said Phoena, beginning her toilet. “I am sorry he’s ill.”
“Oh! it’s his nature to be seedy,” said Di, speaking rather crossly, because she was in sharp conflict with a tangle in her long wavy hair, “you know that we always hear that he’s such a wonderful saint when he’s ill and he is such a toad when he isn’t.”
“I should think that it must be harder to be nice when you are ill than when you’re well,” remarked Phoena, rather dreamily.
“I’m sure it can’t be,” broke in Di, “because it’s always the way with the horridest people. They enrage you so when they are well, that they make you say and do horrid things yourself, and then they have a trick of getting ill and going to bed and turning into such saints, that somehow you can’t help feeling ashamed of yourself for having hated them when they are well. I call saints of that sort ‘pillow case saints,’ for their goodness slips off their pillow, just as easily as it slips on. And then if they go and die—oh! bother, there’s no tucker in my frock, how I wish Andrew wouldn’t be ill and make Fay stay in bed instead of being here to help me. Andrew always is a bother!”
“It’s very shocking to speak so hard-hearted, Miss Di,” said Ruth, re-appearing at this moment, “maybe you’ll be sorry for it, some fine day.”
“Wouldn’t a wet day do just as well?” retorted Di, pertly, “why are all the nasty things to happen on fine days?”
“That sharp little tongue of yours will bring you into trouble, Miss Di, if you’re not careful,” said long-suffering Ruth, taking pity all the same on Di’s unsuccessful attempts to complete her dressing. “There’s an old saying, you know, that ‘a sharp tongue cuts its owner’s throat.’ ”