He warmed a soapstone in the embers, and taking off
Mrs. Boynton's shoes, put it under her cold feet. He chafed her
hands and gently poured a spoonful of brandy between her pale
lips. Then sprinkling camphor on a handkerchief he held it to her
nostrils and to his joy she stirred in her chair; before many
minutes her lids fluttered, her lips moved, and she put her hand
to her heart.
"Are you better, Aunt dear?" Rod asked in a very wavering and
tearful voice.
She did not answer; she only opened her eyes and looked at him.
At length she whispered faintly, "I want Ivory; I want my son."
"He's out, Aunt dear. Shall I help you to bed the way Ivory does?
If you'll let me, then I'll run to the bridge 'cross lots, like
lightning, and bring him back."
She assented, and leaning heavily on his slender shoulder, walked
feebly into her bedroom off the living-room. Rod was as gentle as
a mother and he was familiar with all the little offices that
could be of any comfort; the soapstone warmed again for her feet,
the bringing of her nightgown from the closet, and when she was
in bed, another spoonful of brandy in hot milk; then the camphor
by her side, an extra homespun blanket over her, and the door
left open so that she could see the open fire that he made into a
cheerful huddles contrived so that it would not snap and throw
out dangerous sparks in his absence.
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