"Oh, but Senorita, I--I am of ze ashamed to be so--to be--" Again
her voice trailed off into that mere faintness, which was as weak as
a whisper, yet unlike it.
"Now, not another word!" insisted Mrs. Kimball, in the tone of her
daughter, and the Robinson twins well knew she meant to have her own
good way. "You are in our hands, my dear child, and until you are
able to leave them, you must do as we say. A little more of that
ammonia, Cora, and then have Janet bring in some warm bouillon--not
too hot. I believe the poor child is just weak from hunger," she
whispered over the head of the lace seller, whose brown eyes were now
veiled with the olive lids.
"Oh!" gasped Bess. "Hungry!"
"Hush! She'll hear you," cautioned Belle, for somehow she sensed the
proudness of those who, though they toil hard for their daily bread,
yet have even greater pride than those who might, if they wished, eat
from golden dishes--the pride of the poor who are ashamed to have it
known that they hunger--and there is no more pitiful pride.
The girl did not show signs of sensing anything of that which went on
around her. Even when the second spoonful of ammonia had trickled
through her trembling lips, she did not again open her eyes.
"Here is the bouillon," said Janet, as she came in with some in a
dainty cup, on a servette.
"We must try to get her to take a little," said Mrs.
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