Page:Dorothy Canfield - Rough-hewn.djvu/92

 curtains, her body buried in them. She was sick, sick from head to foot.

And then. . . nobody came to help her, since there was nobody to come; nothing happened. . . nothing could happen. She had thought she couldn't live, feeling like this. But she would have to, since there wasn't anything else to do.

This came to her slowly, and slowly sank into her, like still, deep cold.

Two days after this, as Jeanne was brushing her hair, she said to Marise, "Our cat will be brought back to us to-morrow. She is all right now, M. Bergeret says."

Marise waited until the wave of sickness passed and she felt she could make her voice sound as usual. Then she said casually, "I've changed my mind. I don't want a cat now. It would bother Maman too much."

Jeanne was relieved. "Oh, very well. I don't ask anything better. I hate cats around the house anyhow." She went on brushing Marise's hair, with careful, loving skill, proud of its thickness, its sheen, its silky blackness. She thought to herself, "What a beautiful child our Marise is. And how I love her! There isn't anything I wouldn't do for her! May the Holy Virgin guard her and keep her safe always, Amen." She never thought again of the cat.