But, in spite of all this, there was
something missing in that sick room — there was a great want;
and whenever the delirium was upon her, Ellen made no secret
of it. She was never violent; but she moaned, sometimes
impatiently, and sometimes plaintively, for her mother. It was
a vexation to Miss Fortune to hear her. The name of her mother
was all the time on her lips; if by chance her aunt's name
came in, it was spoken in a way that generally sent her
bouncing out of the room.
"Mamma," poor Ellen would say, "just lay your hand on my
forehead, will you? it's so hot! Oh, do, Mamma! — where are
you? Do put your hand on my forehead, won't you? Oh, do speak
to me! — why don't you, Mamma? Oh, why don't she come to me?"
Once, when Ellen was uneasily calling in this fashion for her
mother's hand, Miss Fortune softly laid her own upon the
child's brow; but the quick sudden jerk of the head from under
it told her how well Ellen knew the one from the other; and,
little as she cared for Ellen, it was wormwood to her.
Miss Fortune was not without offers of help during this sick
time. Mrs. Van Brunt, and afterwards Mrs. Vawse, asked leave
to come and nurse Ellen; but Miss Fortune declared it was more
plague than profit to her; and she couldn't be bothered with
having strangers about. Mrs. Van Brunt she suffered, much
against her will, to come for a day or two: at the end of
that, Miss Fortune found means to get rid of her civilly.
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