“It just means that she’s getting better,” he said. “The doctor doesn’t want to trust her any more to the old lady and Lois. They make Daisy nervous. I told the doctor so myself. I came in yesterday after her mother had been looking after her and Daisy was so upset she was out of her head for a while. Didn’t even know me.”

“Daisy’s a mighty sick girl,” Mrs. Friend said, solemnly. “I only hope she pulls through.”

These awesome words made Lena and Marcia look anxiously at their mother, who lay on her side with her eyes fixed on the window, paying no attention to the conversation passing over her. Her small hands looked bluish white against the covers, and the nails seemed almost gray. It was queer to see them lying so lifelessly beside her, fluttering slightly like lame birds when a sudden noise reached her.

“Maybe when she gets well she’ll have a dimple like Florrie,” Lena observed. “Or a scar like Marcia’s got from chicken pox.”

“Poor kids,” said Mrs. Friend, patting their heads. “Well, I’ll pray twice as hard to the Blessed Virgin and maybe the trained nurse can pull her through.”

“We’re not Catholics,” said Lena coldly. “It wouldn’t do any good for you to pray to the Virgin on our account.”

When their mother roused herself again she had them sing some more, and even tried to sing herself. Their father was so exuberant over her good spirits that he dashed out to get her a present and came back with several parcels which he dumped proudly on the bed.

“Open ’em up,” he commanded, rubbing his hands. “I bought out the whole damn Fair Store, honey. Wait till you see.”

Mama shook her head, smiling, so Mrs. Friend had to open up the packages.

“Why, Harry Willard! Silk stockings!” she gasped. “And a real silk nightgown and a pink chemise with hand embroidery. And a gold mesh pocketbook. Why, it must have cost a million dollars!”

“Brady’s a brother Mason, that’s all,” Papa explained, proudly beaming. “Try ’em on, Daisy. It’ll make you feel better.”

The children jumped up and down on the bed, pleased with the celebration, but their mother, in spite of Mrs. Friend’s assistance, could not seem to keep her head above the pillow. She did put one leg out from the covers and they got one silk stocking on, but then she turned her face listlessly to the wall, whimpering, “Where’s Harry? Tell Harry I want to go back to Peach Street.”

“The children had better go back to their aunt’s now,” said Mrs. Friend. “She’s sinking.”

“She’ll feel better when she gets a good look at that gold mesh bag,” their father declared positively. “I may be no doctor but I do know my Daisy. You’re coming around all right, aren’t you, honey? Daisy, listen to me. Hartwell’s lady-friend was asking about you. Isn’t that nice of her? She says her brother had the same thing and now he weighs two hundred pounds. Are you listening, Daisy?”