Mrs. Breen had not been pleased to have her daughter in charge of Mrs. Maynard’s case, but she had not liked her giving it up. She had said more than once that she had no faith in Dr. Mulbridge. She willingly consented to Grace’s prayer, and went down into Mrs. Maynard’s room, and insinuated misgivings in which the sick woman found so much reason that they began for the first time to recognize each other’s good qualities. They decided that the treatment was not sufficiently active, and that she should either have something that would be more loosening to the cough, or some application—like mustard plasters—to her feet, so as to take away that stuffed feeling about the head.
At that hour of the afternoon, when most of the ladies were lying down in their rooms, Grace met no one on the beach but Miss Gleason and Mrs. Alger, who rose from their beds of sand under the cliff at her passage with Mr. Libby to his dory.
“Don’t you want to go to Leyden?” he asked jocosely over his shoulder.
“You don’t mean to say you’re going?” Miss Gleason demanded of Grace.
“Yes, certainly. Why not?”
“Well, you are brave!”
She shut her novel upon her thumb, that she might have nothing to do but admire Grace’s courage, as the girl walked away.
“It will do her good, poor thing,” said the elder woman. “She looks wretchedly.”
“I can understand just why she does it,” murmured Miss Gleason in adoring rapture.
“I hope she does it for pleasure,” said Mrs. Alger.