She passed through the kitchen, laying her roses on the table. Then she went into her mother’s room. Mrs. Ferguson lay on a couch. A white cloth was banded around her head, coming well down over one eye. She was moaning bitterly. Demaris looked at her without speaking. “Where on earth you been?” She gave the girl a look of fierce reproach. “A body might die, fer all the help you’d be to ’em. Here I’ve been a-feelin’ a spell a-comin’ on all day, an’ yet you go a-gaddin’ ’round to the neighbors, leavin’ me to get along the best way I know how. I believe this is my last spell. I’ve got that awful pain over my right eye ag’in, till I’m nearly crazy. My liver’s all out o’ order.” Demaris was silent. When one has heard the cry of “wolf” a hundred times, one is inclined to be incredulous. Her apathetic look angered her mother. “What makes you stand there a-starin’ like a dunce? Can’t you help a body? Get the camfire bottle an’ the tincture lobelia an’ the box o’ goose grease! You know’s well’s me what I need when I git a spell. I’m so nervous I feel’s if I c’u’d fly. I got a horrible feelin’ that this’ll be my last spell—an’ yet you stand there a-starin’ ’s if you didn’t care a particle!” Demaris moved about the room stiffly, as if every muscle in her body were in rebellion. She took from a closet filled with drugs the big camphor bottle with its cutglass stopper, the little bottle labeled “tinc. lobelia,” and the box of goose grease. She placed a chair at the side of the couch to hold the bottle. “Oh, take that old split-bottom cheer away!” exclaimed her mother. “Everything upsets on it so! Get one from the kitchen—the one that’s got cherries painted on the back of it. What makes you ac’ so? You know what cheer I want. You’d tantalize the soul out of a saint!” The chair was brought. The bottles were placed upon it. Demaris stood waiting. “Now rub my head with the camfire, or I’ll go ravin’ crazy. I can’t think where ’t comes from!” The child stood twitching her thin fingers around a chair. She watched her mother in a matter-of-course way. Demaris leaned over the couch in an uncomfortable position and commenced the slow, gentle massage that must continue all night. She did not lift her eyes. They were full of tears. For a long time there was silence in the room. Mrs. Ferguson lay with closed eyes. Her face wore a look of mingled injury and reproach. “Nellie,” said Demaris, after a while, “could you make a fire in the kitchen stove? Or would you rather try to do this while I build it?” “Hunh-unh,” said the child, shaking her head with emphasis. “I’d ruther build fires any time.” “All right. Put two dippers o’ water ’n the tea-kettle. Be sure you get your dampers right. An’ I guess you might wash some potatoes an’ put ’em in to bake. They’ll be done by time pa comes, an’ he can stay with ma while I warm up the rest o’ the things. Ma, what could you eat?”