There was a look of great pain on
her face, and Cecile, with a rush of sorrow, felt that she had looked
much happier when she alone had been caring for her. Aunt Lydia,
however, must be a good nurse, for she had made the room look quite
like a sickroom. She had drawn down the blinds and placed a little
table with bottles by the sofa, and she herself was bustling about,
with a very busy and important air. She was not quiet, however, as
Cecile had been, and her voice, which was reduced to a whisper pitch,
had an irritating effect, as all voices so pitched have.
Cecile, securing a loaf of bread and a jug of milk, ran downstairs,
and she, Maurice, and Toby had their breakfast in truly picnic
fashion. Afterward the children and dog stayed out in the court for
the rest of the day. The little court faced south, and the sun stayed
on it for many hours, so that Maurice was not cold, and every hour or
so Cecile crept upstairs and listened outside the sitting-room door.
There was always that hard breathing within, but otherwise no sound.
At last the sun went off the court, and Maurice got cold and cried,
and then Cecile, as softly as she had brought him out, took him back
to their little bedroom. Having had no sleep the night before, she
was very weary now, and she lay down on the bed, and before she had
time to think about it was fast asleep.
From this sleep she was awakened by a hand touching her, a light
being flashed in her eyes, and Aunt Lydia's strong, deep voice
bidding her get up and come with her at once.
Pages:
14
15
16
17
18
19
20
21
22
23
24
25
26
27
28
29
30
31
32
33
34
35
36
37
38