Emma had a cough that hung on for weeks and weeks, she couldn't seem to gather herself together and throw it off, and Mirabella all the time assuring her that she had no cough at all!
Certain things began to seem very clear to me.
One was the duty of a sister, of two sisters. One was the need of a change of climate for my Emma.
One was that ever opening field of human possibilities which it has been the increasing joy of my lifetime to study.
I carried two boxes of my delectable fudge to those ladies quite regularly, a plain white one for Emma, a pretty colored one for the Incubus.
"Are you sure it is good for you?" I asked Mirabella; "I love to make it and have it appreciated, but does your Doctor think it is good for you?"
Strong in her latest faith she proudly declared she could eat anything. She could—visibly. So she took me up short on this point, and ate several to demonstrate immunity—out of Emma's box.
Nevertheless, in spite of all demonstration she seemed to grow somewhat—queasy—shall we say? —and drove poor Emma almost to tears trying to please her in the matter of meals.
Then I began to take them both out to ride in my motor, and to call quite frequently on Arabella; they couldn't well help it, you see, when I stopped the car and hopped out. "Mrs. Sibthorpe's sister" I'd always say to the butler or maid, and she'd always act as if she owned the house—that is if Arabella was out.
Then I had a good talk with Emma's old doctor, and he quite frightened her.