"I will, though," said Winnie; "that is, if it is right. I don't want to catch anything, and take it home to the children."
"I don't think it is catching. My head ached awfully, and the doctor was thinking it might turn out to be something contagious; but that fear is over. Oh, Winnie, is it not dreadful to be sick?"
Poor Joan of Arc was lying in a small, dark room, and in a large chair beside her was a pale-faced woman asleep. On an easel was an unfinished crayon head; here and there were sketches, scraps of pictures, as if done to test a color or a method. The afternoon sun was pouring a dusty flood of light on the faded carpet.
Winnie turned as if to go—were not Bob and Mary Graham waiting for her? she could fairly hear the splash of the water against the side of the boat. Joan of Arc turned a pale, longing face toward her.
"Oh, don't go, Winnie!"
"Do you want me?"
"Oh, so much! Mother is really ill herself. She has nursed me night and day, and tried to finish that crayon too—it is an order; but she is worn out—poor mother!"
Winnie moved about uneasily, thinking of lilacs and roses and syringas and the boat, but after a while she tore a slip from a copy-book and wrote a little note to her grandmother, telling the good old lady where she was. Then she turned to poor pale little Joan, bathed her, smoothed her pillows, and gave her the medicine which was to be taken.
Slowly the hours went by; no going to Staten Island this time. The clock ticked away, the jangling bells and whistles quieted down, doors opened and shut, people had their dinners and teas. The street grew quiet, and little pale-faced Joan slept softly and restfully, with one hand in Winnie's. Ten, eleven, twelve o'clock struck. Winnie must have dozed, but now she was wakened by little Joan's arousing.
"Oh, Winnie, I am so thirsty!"