Mrs. Whalen bestowed on me a motherly hug
that enveloped me in an atmosphere of liquid face-wash,
strong perfumery and fried lard. Mrs. Whalen is a famous
cook. Said she:
"We've been thinking of calling ever since you were
brought home, but dear me! you've been looking so poorly
I just said to the girls, wait till the poor thing feels
more like seeing her old friends. Tell me, how are you
feeling now?"
The three sat forward in their chairs in attitudes of
tense waiting.
I resolved that if err I must it should be on the
side of safety. I turned to sister Norah.
"How am I feeling anyway, Norah?" I guardedly
inquired.
Norah's face was a study. "Why Dawn dear," she said,
sugar-sweet, "no doubt you know better than I. But I'm
sure that you are wonderfully improved--almost your old
self, in fact. Don't you think she looks splendid, Mrs.
Whalen?"
The three Whalens tore their gaze from my blank
countenance to exchange a series of meaning looks.
"I suppose," purred Mrs. Whalen, " that your awful
trouble was the real cause of your--a-a-a-sickness,
worrying about it and grieving as you must have."
She pronounces it with a capital T, and I know she
means Peter.
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