she had really
followed it, with glimpses of intelligence, as children do, and now at
this negative accusal she lifted her hand, and suddenly struck Grace a
stinging blow on the cheek.

Mrs. Maynard sprang from her lounge. "Why, Bella! you worthless little
wretch!" She caught her from Grace's knee, and shook her violently.
Then, casting the culprit from her at random, she flung herself
down again in a fit of coughing, while the child fled to Grace for
consolation, and, wildly sobbing, buried her face in the lap of her
injured friend.

"I don't know what I shall do about that child!" cried Mrs. Maynard.
"She has George Maynard's temper right over again. I feel dreadfully,
Grace!"

"Oh, never mind it," said Grace, fondling the child, and half addressing
it. "I suppose Bella thought I had been unkind to her mother."

"That's just it!" exclaimed Louise. "When you've been kindness itself!
Don't I owe everything to you? I should n't be alive at this moment if
it were not for your treatment. Oh, Grace!" She began to cough again;
the paroxysm increased in vehemence. She caught her handkerchief
from her lips; it was spotted with blood. She sprang to her feet, and
regarded it with impersonal sternness. "Now," she said, "I am sick, and
I want a doctor!"

"A doctor," Grace meekly echoed.

"Yes. I can't be trifled with any longer. I want a man doctor!"

Grace had looked at the handkerchief. "Very well," she said, with
coldness. "I shall not stand in your way of calling another physician.
But if it will console you, I can tell you that the blood on your
handkerchief means nothing worth speaking of. Whom shall I send for?"
she asked, turning to go out of the roam. "I wish to be your friend
still, and I will do anything I can to help you."

"Oh, Grace Breen! Is that the way you talk to me?" whimpered Mrs.
Maynard. "You know that I don't mean to give you up. I'm not a stone;
I have some feeling. I did n't intend to dismiss you, but I thought
perhaps you would like to have a consultation about it. I should think
it was time to have a consultation, should n't you? Of course, I'm
not alarmed, but I know it's getting serious, and I'm afraid that your
medicine is n't active enough. That's it; it's perfectly good medicine,
but it is n't active. They've all been saying that I ought to have
something active. Why not try the whiskey with the white-pine chips in
it? I'm sure it's indicated." In her long course of medication she had
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