"Ida, you are certainly going to be ill," said Angela. "I never heard you talk that way before."
Angela's supposition proved correct. By night Ida had a high fever, and the pains in her limbs had grown very much worse.
Doctor Stone was sent for, and pronounced her sickening with scarletina.
Soon after he had made his visit Ida fell asleep, and dozed at intervals all night. At about eight o'clock she woke from a longer nap than usual. The sun was shining in between the slats of the closed blinds, but the house seemed strangely still. She listened intently, but could hear no one stirring, no sound of voices; only the sullen roar of the mighty ocean.
Her throat was parched; her blood seemed to course through her veins like liquid fire.
"Oh, if I only had a drink of water; how good it would feel," she said aloud.
As she spoke, a portly figure rose slowly from a seat by one of the windows. It was Old Dinah, the black cook Mrs. Leverton employed every summer.
"Dinah'll get yo' the water, honey," she said.
"Dinah!" exclaimed Ida. "Why, what are you doing up here?"
"I's nursin' yo', honey, de bes' I knows how. De doctor, he done tole me de directions."