“Can we do anything for her?” asked Lucy; and Lucy’s manner was very sweet when she chose. Pecy had never happened to hear her voice sound like this; and something—perhaps it was surprise—caused her to shake with convulsive sobs.
“I dun know,” replied the woman, stirring vigorously with the spoon. “I’m mixing mandrake and ’lasses. I ’lowed she’d get wet goin’ to the pastur’ in the rain; but she won’t mind me, sevin’ (excepting) I licks her.”
“What a home, and what a mother!” thought the campers.
“Would you like to have us bring her some lemons and sugar?” asked Preston.
There was a quick stirring of the bundle of rags on the floor, and Pecy’s rough head and flushed face appeared for a moment above the surface.
“We are all sorry you are sick, Pecy,” continued Preston; “we didn’t know those hailstones were coming, or we would have kept you at our house.” This was as near a confession as he chose to make; and, closing the subject, “Now we’ll go back and get the lemons and sugar. Good-by, Pecy.”
“Did you ever in all your life!” exclaimed Sadie, when they were safely in the boat again. Words seemed utterly powerless to express the astonishment, pity, and disgust of the whole party. “I’m so glad you thought of the lemons, Preston,” said Lucy.
For there was an unspoken feeling with her and all the rest, of responsibility for the little creature they had thoughtlessly ill-treated. Was there anything more they could do for her? They “wondered she didn’t die and done with it in such a home. Perhaps her mother would kill her with her doses.” Yes; but who had driven her out without mercy into the storm? If she should die, would Camp Comfort be free from blame?