Druse looked at herself with dull, sick eyes; her usually pallid face
was crimson, and beneath the skin, purplish angry discolorations
appeared in the flesh.
"I guess I'm goin' to be sick," she said, with a despairing cadence. "I
expect it's somethin' catchin'. I'll go home. Let me go home."
She started for the door, but her limbs suddenly gave way, and she
fell, a limp little heap on the floor.
Miss De Courcy looked at her a moment in silence. Her eyes wandered
about the room, and fell on a crumpled letter on the table. She paused a
moment, then she turned decisively, and let down the folding-bed that
stood in the corner by day. She lifted the half-conscious Druse in her
strong young arms, and laid her on the bed. It was only a few minutes'
work to remove the coarse garments, and wrap her in a perfumed, frilled
nightdress, that hung loosely on the spare little form. Miss De Courcy
surveyed the feverish face against the pillows anxiously. Druse half
opened her dull eyes and moaned feebly; she lifted her thin arms and
clasped them around Miss De Courcy's neck. "Ain't you good!" she said
thickly, drawing the cool cheek down against her hot brow.
"I'm going for the doctor, Druse," said Miss De Courcy, coaxingly. "Now,
you lay right still, and I'll be back in no time. Don't you move;
promise, Druse!"
And Druse gave an incoherent murmur that passed for a promise.
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