“I shall have you sleep with me to-night, in the down-stairs room,” said Aunt Charlotte; “and I’ll put a flannel round your neck, dear, and some poultices on your feet.”
Flaxie smiled faintly as she saw the dried burdock-leaves soaking in vinegar, for she liked to have a suitable parade made over her when she was sick. Besides, she had often thought she should enjoy sleeping in the “down-stairs room,” and was glad now that Uncle Ben happened to be gone; that is, as glad as she could be of anything. It was a miserable, forlorn world all of a sudden to Flaxie, and she had never known such “a mean old night,” even if it was “the night before Christmas.”
The lamp burning dimly in the corner of the room, on the floor, cast shadows that frightened her; her head ached; she woke the baby in the crib by crying, and then he woke everybody else.
It was a “mean old night” to the whole house; and when I say the whole house, I mean both halves of it. About midnight, as Mrs. Hunter was sleeping sweetly, her door-bell rang a furious peal. Nobody likes to hear such a sound at dead of night, and Mrs. Hunter trembled a little, for she was all alone with her children; but she rose and dressed as fast as possible, and went down-stairs with a lamp.
“Who is it?” she asked, through the keyhole.
“It’s ME!” said a childish voice that she thought sounded like one of the Allen children.
She ventured to open the door, and there on the steps in the darkness stood Flaxie Frizzle, bareheaded, shivering, and looking terribly frightened.
“Oh, Mrs. Hunter, something orful has happened at our house. Oh, come quick, Mrs. Hunter!”
“Yes, yes, dear, I’ll go this minute; but what is it?” said the lady, hurrying to the entry closet for her shawl.
“Auntie is crazy! She is running round and round with the tea-kettle.”