“You did!” exclaimed Druse.  “Then I guess you know how it is at first.  When you think every Friday night (there ain’t been but two, yet) ‘There, they’re gettin’ ready for Lodge meetin’;’ and every Sunday evenin’ ’bout half-past seven:  ‘I guess it’s mos’ time for the Meth’dis’ bell to ring.  I must get my brown felt on, and—­’”

“Your what?” asked Miss De Courcy.

“My brown felt, my hat, an’—­oh! well, there’s lots o’ things I kind o’ forget, and start to get ready for.  An’ I can’t sleep much on account of not having Bell an’ Virey an’ Mimy to bed with me.  It’s so lonesome without ’em.  The children here won’t sleep with me.  I did have Gusty one night, but I woke her up four times hangin’ on to her.  I’m so used to holding Mimy in!  Oh!  I guess I’ll get over it all right, but you know how it is yourself.”

Miss De Courcy did not reply.  She had closed her eyes, and now she gave the bandage on her head an angry twich. “Oh, how it aches!” she said through her shut teeth.  “Here, give me that bottle on the stand, will you?  It’ll make it worse, but I don’t care.  My doctor’s medicine don’t seem to do me much good, but I sort of keep on taking it,” she said to Druse, grandly as she poured out a brownish liquid into the cloudy glass that the good little housekeeper had eyed dubiously, before giving it to her.

Miss De Courcy’s doctor evidently believed in stimulants; a strong odor of Scotch whiskey filled the room.

“It smells quite powerful, does’nt it?” she said.  “It has something in it to keep it, you know.  It’s very unpleasant to take,” she added, rolling up her brown eyes to Druse’s compassionate face.

“I do’ know as it would do you any good, prob’ly it wouldn’t,” said Druse shyly, shifting the glass from one hand to the other, “but I used to stroke Ma’s head lots, when she had a chance to set down, and it ached bad.”

Miss De Courcy promptly stretched herself at full length, and settled her feet comfortably in the lace skirts, in which the high, sharp heels tore two additional rents, and pulled the bandage from her forehead.

“Go ahead,” she said, laconically.  Druse dragged a chair to the side of the couch, and for some minutes there was silence—­that is, the comparative silence that might exist in the Vere De Vere—­while she deftly touched the burning smooth flesh with her finger tips.

Miss De Courcy opened her eyes drowsily.  “I guess I’m going to get a nap, after all.  You’re doing it splendid.  You’ll come and see me again, won’t you?  Say, don’t tell your folks you was here to-day, will you?  I’ll tell you why.  I—­I’ve got a brother that drinks.  It’s awful.  He comes to see me evenings a good deal, and some daytimes.  They’d be afraid he’d be home, ‘n’ they wouldn’t let you come again.  He’s cross, you see ‘n’ they’d never—­let you come again ’f you—­”

Miss De Courcy was almost overpowered by sleep.  She roused herself a moment and looked at Druse with dull pleading.  “Don’t you tell ’em, will you?  Promise!  I want you to come again.  A girl isn’t to blame if her father—­I mean her brother—­”