Oh, Ida, I do feel that poorly, I do! It’s the draught under the door; what else can it be? I do, I do feel that poorly!”
She began to cry miserably. Ida forgot all about the tale she had to tell; her own eyes overflowed in sympathy. She put her arm under her mother’s neck, and pressed cheek to cheek tenderly.
“Oh, how hot you are, mother! Shall I get you a cup of tea, dear? Wouldn’t it make your throat better?”
“Perhaps it would; I don’t know. Don’t go away, not just yet. You’ll have to be a mother to me to-night, Ida. I almost feel I could go to sleep, if you held me like that.”
She closed her eyes, but only for a moment, then started up anxiously.
“What am I thinking about! Of course you want your tea.”
“No, no; indeed I don’t, mother.”
“Nonsense; of course you do. See, the kettle is on the bob, and I think it’s full. Go away; you make me hotter. Let me see you
