"The very idea of asking that image of calm decision there to do anything!—but then I must, I am nurse"; so I ventured, "Had you not better go to bed?"
"After a little. Would you bathe my head? this pain distresses me, and I don't want to dream, I'd rather stay awake."
As I stood beside her, gently applying the cooling remedy, trying to stroke away the pain, she asked,—
"Did they tell you that my mother is dead?"
"Yes."
"She was my mother. Oh, why didn't I tell her? Why? why?" and great spasms of torturesome pain drew her beautiful face. I didn't tell you how beautiful she is. Well, it doesn't matter; you couldn't understand, if I should try.
She turned suddenly, caught my dress in her hands, and asked,—
"Have you a mother, Miss Percival?" and before I could answer my sad "No," she said, "Forgive me. I forgot for one moment"
My mother had been twenty years dead. What did she know about it? I, three years old when she died, but just remembered her.
Katie came in, bringing "thoughts of me" condensed into aromatic draughts of coffee, which she put upon the hearth, "to keep warm," she said.