June sat up excitedly in bed and pointed to a corner of the room. “There he is, in the quaking asps, grinnin’ at me! Don’t you come nearer, Jake Houck! Don’t you! If you do I’ll—I’ll—”
Dr. Tuckerman put his hand gently on her shoulder. “It’s all right, June. Here’s your father. We won’t let Houck near you. Better lie down now and rest.”
“Why must I lie down?” she asked belligerently. “Who are you anyhow, mister?”
“I’m the doctor. You’re not quite well. We’re looking after you.”
Tolliver came forward timorously. “Tha’s right, June. You do like the doctor says, honey.”
“I’d just as lief, Dad,” she answered, and lay down obediently.
When she was out of her head, at the height of the fever, Mrs. Gillespie could always get her to take the medicine and could soothe her fears and alarms. Mollie was chief nurse. If she was not in the room, after June had begun to mend, she was usually in the kitchen cooking broths or custards for the sick girl.
June’s starved heart had gone out to her in passionate loyalty and affection. No woman had ever been good to her before, not since the death of her aunt, at least. And Mollie’s goodness had the quality of sympathy. It held no room for criticism or the sense of superiority. She was a sinner herself, and it was in her to be tender to others who had fallen from grace.
To Mollie this child’s innocent trust in her was exquisitely touching. June was probably the only person in the world except small children who believed in her in just this way. It was not possible that this faith could continue after June became strong enough to move around and talk with the women of Bear Cat. Though she had outraged public opinion all her life, Mollie Gillespie found herself tugged at by recurring impulses to align herself as far as possible with respectability.
For a week she fought against the new point of view. Grimly she scoffed at what she chose to consider a weakness.