"Then let me see it at once."
"Betty, I'd rather you didn't; that is, not just now; some other day, perhaps——"
"Oh, it doesn't make any difference; whatever it is, you've no business to waste your time in this way. Do, for goodness' sake, leave books alone for a while, and attend to your work!"
That night Betty goes to sleep with an uneasy sense that the day has not been altogether well spent, in spite of the success of her washing schemes.
Awakening, some hours later, with this uncomfortable feeling strong upon her, she begins to ask herself what has been wrong? Conscience soon tells her that she has been unkind to her sister.
"I did speak sharply, and I certainly felt very vexed; but, then, it was aggravating, and there is really too much to do in our house for that sort of thing.
"Of course, I know that Lucy is not so old, or so strong, as I am; but she should have remembered how much I like an early cup of tea on washing-day, and——. What was that? Lucy, did you speak?"
Betty breaks off her meditations hastily, and raises herself on her elbow. Is Lucy asleep on the pillow beside her—surely, she spoke just now?
She is speaking, or, rather, muttering, in her sleep. How strange! Can she be ill?
Then Betty remembers, with a faint thrill of alarm, that Lucy ate neither tea nor supper; and, when mother asked the reason, she said her head ached.