"I feel lots better," she remarked, after a while. "That's right. I thought you would. Now I'm going to telephone your Aunt Jessica that you feel better, and you just lie quiet and go to sleep. Then you will feel better still. I'll put the bell right here beside the bed. If you want anything, tap it." The presence waddled away--the girl could feel its going in the tremor of the bed beneath her--and Elliott out of half-shut eyes looked into the room. The shades were partially drawn and the light was dim. A little breeze fluttered the white scrim curtain. The girl's lazy gaze traveled slowly over what she could see without moving her head. To move her head would have been too much trouble. What she saw was spotless and clean and countrified, the kind of room she would have scorned this morning; now she thought it the most peaceful place in the world. But she didn't intend to go to sleep in it. She meant merely to lie wrapped in that delicious mantle of well-being and continue to feel how utterly content she was. It seemed a pity to go to sleep and lose consciousness of a thing like that. But the first thing she knew she was waking up and the room was quite dark and she felt comfortable, but just the least bit queer. It couldn't be that she was hungry! She lay and debated the point drowsily until a streak of light fell across the bed. The light came from a kerosene lamp in the hands of an immense woman whose mild blue eyes beamed on Elliott. "There, you've waked up, haven't you? I guess you'll like a glass of milk now. You can bring it right up, Harriet. She's awake." The woman set down her lamp on a little table and lumbered about the room, adjusting the shades at the windows, while the lamp threw grotesque exaggerations on the wall. Elliott watched the shadows, a warm little smile at her heart. They were funny, but she found herself tender toward them. When the woman padded back to the bed the girl smiled, her cheek pillowed on her hand. She liked her there beside the bed, her big shapeless form totally obscuring the straight-backed chair. She didn't think of waist lines or clothes at all, only of how comfortable and cushiony and pleasant the large face looked. Mothery--might not that be the word for it? Somehow like Aunt Jessica, yet without the slightest resemblance except in expression, a kind of radiating lovingness that warmed one through and through, and made everything right, no matter how wrong it might have seemed. "I telephoned your Aunt Jessica," said the big woman. "She was just going to call us, and they all sent their love to you. Here's Harriet with the milk. Do you feel a mite hungry?" "I think that must be what was the matter with me. I was trying to decide when you came in." The fat form shook all over with silent laughter. It was fascinating to watch laughter that produced such a cataclysm but made no sound. Elliott forgot to drink in her absorption.