Whether it was the search for the key in the chill of the early morning, or whether it was that she ate too heartily of grandma’s good things, certain it was that when Edna waked up the morning after Thanksgiving, she felt very listless and miserable. Her father was already up and dressed, and her mother was making her toilet when the little girl turned over and watched her with heavy eyes.

“Well, little girl,” said Mrs. Conway, “it seems to me that it is time for you to get up.”

Edna gave a long sigh, closed her eyes, but presently found the courage to make an effort towards rising. She threw aside the covers, slipped her feet into her red worsted slippers, and then sat on the side of her cot in so dejected an attitude that her mother noticed it. “What,” she said, “are you so very sleepy still? I suspect you are tired out from yesterday’s doings.”

“My head aches and there are cold creeps running up and down my back,” Edna told her.

Her mother came nearer, and laid her cool hand on the throbbing temples. “Your head is hot,” she declared. “I am afraid you have taken cold. Cuddle back under the covers and I will bring or send your breakfast up to you.”

“I don’t think I want any breakfast,” said Edna, snuggling down with a grateful feeling for the warmth and quiet.

“Not want any breakfast? Then you certainly aren’t well. When waffles and fried chicken cannot tempt you, I know something is wrong.”

Mrs. Conway went on with the finishing touches to her dress and hair while Edna dozed, but half conscious of what was going on around her. She did not hear her mother leave the room, and did not know how long it was before she heard Celia’s voice saying: “Mother says you’d better try to drink this.”

“This” was a cup of hot milk of which Edna tried to take a few sips and then lay back on her pillow. “I don’t want it,” she said.

“Poor little sister,” said Celia commiseratingly. “It is too bad you don’t feel well. Is there anything I can do for you?”

“No, thank you,” replied Edna weakly.

“Mother is coming up in a minute,” Celia went on. “Uncle Bert and all of them are going this morning, but as soon as they are off she will come up to see how you are.”

“Is everyone going?” asked Edna languidly.

“No, not this morning. Uncle Bert and his family take the morning train because they have the furthest to go, and Aunt Lucia wants to get home with the children before dark. Uncle Wilbur, Aunt Emmeline and all those are going on the afternoon train. Father thinks he must get back to-day, too.”

Edna made no answer, but closed her eyes again drowsily.

“I’ll set the milk down here,” Celia went on, “and maybe you will feel like drinking some more of it after a little while.”

She set the cup on a chair by Edna’s bedside and stole softly out of the room, leaving her sister to fall into another doze from which she was awakened by hearing a timid voice say: “Excuse me. I hope you are not asleep, but I want to say good-bye,” and turning over, Edna saw her little Cousin Lulie.

“Oh, are you going?” came from the little girl in bed.

“Yes, we are all ready. I am so sorry you are sick. I like you so much and I wish you would come to our house some day.”

Edna was too polite not to make some effort of appreciation, so she sat up and held out her little hot hand. “Oh, thank you,” she answered; “I should love to come, and I wish you could come to see us. Ask Uncle Bert to bring you real soon.”

“Mother said I had better not kiss you,” remarked Lulie honestly, “for I might take your cold, but I have folded up a kiss in this piece of paper and I will put it here so you can get it when I am gone.”

Edna smiled at this and liked Lulie all the better for the fancy. “I won’t forget it,” she said earnestly. “I will send you one when I get well, but you’d better not take a feverish one with you. Good-bye, and say good-bye to all the others.”

“They would have come, too,” Lulie informed her, “but mother thought one of us was enough when you had a headache, and that I could bring all the good-byes for the others. Now I must go. Get well soon.” And she was off leaving Edna with a consciousness of it’s being a wise decree which prevented more visitors, for her headache was so much the worse for having had but one.

She lay very still wishing the noises below would cease, the running back and forth, the shutting of doors, the calling of the boys to one another and the crying of the baby. But last of all she heard the carriage wheels on the gravel, and then it was suddenly silent. The boys had all gone off to play, and the only sounds were occasional footsteps on the stair, the stirring of the kitchen fire, and outside, the distant “Caw! Caw!” of the crows in the trees. For a long time she was very quiet. Once her mother came to the door and peeped in, but, seeing no movement, believed the child asleep, but later she came in and Edna opened her eyes to see her standing by her bedside.

“Poor little lass,” said her mother, “you’re not feeling well at all, are you? I am afraid you have a little fever. I will give you something that I hope will make you feel better.”

“Not any nasty medicine,” begged Edna.

“No, only some tiny tablets that you can swallow right down with a little water.” She went to the bureau and found the little phial she was in search of. After shaking out a few pellets in her hand, she brought them to Edna with a glass of water and the child took the dose obediently, for she knew these small tablets of old.

“Now,” Mrs. Conway went on, “I will cover you up warm, and you must try to get to sleep. Grandma is trying to keep the house quiet and Ben has taken off the boys. I am going to tidy up the room and stay here with you for awhile. There, now; you will be more comfortable that way,” and under her mother’s loving touches Edna felt happier already and in a short time fell into a sound sleep from which she awakened feeling brighter. Her mother was sitting by the window crocheting where the sun was streaming in.

Edna sat up and pushed back the hair from her face. Her mother noticed the movement. “Well, dearie,” she said, “you have had a nice nap and I hope you feel ever so much better.”

“Yes, I think I do,” said the child a little doubtfully.

“That wasn’t a very enthusiastic voice. You can’t be sure about it?”

“Yes, I can. I do feel a great deal better.”

“And as if you would like a little something to eat?”

“Why ­what could I eat?”

“How would some milk toast and a soft-boiled egg do?”

“I like milk toast pretty well, but I don’t believe I want the egg.”

“Not when it will be freshly laid this morning?”

“I couldn’t have it fried, I suppose?”

“Better not. I’ll tell you what I will do; I will go down and ask grandma what she thinks would be best for you. Would you like to sit up in bed? I can put something over your shoulders and prop you up with pillows, or how would you like to get into my bed? There is more room and you can look out of the window. I will bundle you up and carry you over.”

“I’d like that,” returned Edna in a satisfied tone; it was always a treat to get into mother’s bed.

Mrs. Conway turned down the covers of her own bed, slipped Edna into her flannel wrapper, threw a shawl around her and carried her across the room to deposit her in the big bed. “There,” she said, “you can keep your wrapper on till you get quite warm. Let me put this pillow behind your back. That’s it. Now, then, how do you like the change?”

“Oh, I like it,” Edna assured her. “And my head is much better.”

“I think you’d better stay in bed, however, for we want to break up that cold. There is no better way to do it than to keep you in bed for to-day at least. Now I will go down and interview grandma.”

She left the room, and Edna heard her talking to some one in the entry. Then the door opened and grandma herself came in. “Good morning, dear child,” she said. “I wanted to come up before, but it seemed best to keep you quiet. I am so glad to hear that you are feeling better, but you must be careful not to take more cold. Would you like to have Serena to keep you company?”

“Oh, I should like her very much,” returned Edna.

Her grandmother left the room returning presently with an old-fashioned doll which had been hers when she was a little girl. The doll was dressed in the fashion of sixty years ago and was quite a different creature from Edna’s Virginia. She always liked Serena in spite of her black corkscrew curls and staring blue eyes. Whenever she visited Overlea, Serena was given to her to play with, as a special privilege. Her grandma knew that Edna was careful, but she would not have brought out this relic of her childhood for everyone. “I will put this little shawl around her before you take her, for she has been in a cooler room, and it might chill you to touch her,” said grandma, as she wound a small worsted shawl over Serena’s blue silk frock. “I will put her on the bed there right by you and then I will go down to see if Amanda has anything that is fit for a little invalid to eat.” She kissed the top of Edna’s head and went out leaving her to Serena’s company.

It was not long before Edna heard some one coming slowly up the stair, then there was a pause before the door, next a knock and second pause before Edna’s “Come in” was answered by Reliance who carefully bore a tray on which stood several covered dishes.

“I asked Mrs. Willis to please let me bring this up,” said Reliance. “I am so sorry you are sick, I am dreadfully afraid you took cold hunting that key.”

“Oh, I don’t suppose it was that,” Edna tried to reassure her. “I might have taken cold yesterday, for I got so warm running when we were playing Hide-and-Seek. Oh, how lovely, Reliance, you have brought up grandma’s dear little dishes that were given her when she was a little girl. I love those little dishes with the flowers on them.”

“You’re to eat this first,” said Reliance, uncovering a small tureen in which some delicious chicken broth was steaming. “There is toast to go with it. Then if you feel as if you wanted any more, there is a little piece of cold turkey and some jelly.”

But in spite of her belief that she could eat every bit of what was before her, Edna could do no more than manage the broth and one piece of toast, Reliance watching her solicitously while she ate. “You’re not very peckish, are you?” she said. “Well, anyhow I am glad this didn’t come on before you had your Thanksgiving; it would have been dreadful if it had happened yesterday.”

“I am glad, too,” returned Edna. “What time is it, Reliance?”

“It’s most dinner time. As soon as the boys come in, it will be ready. I’ll take back the tray, but I have to go awful careful, for I would sooner break my leg than these dishes.” She bore off the tray as Edna snuggled back against her pillows, holding one of Serena’s kid hands in hers in order that she might feel less alone. She was not left long to Serena’s sole company, however, for first came her father to say good-bye, then Aunt Emmeline stopped at the door, and behind her, Cousin Becky and Uncle Wilbur, all ready with sympathy and good wishes. A little later, she heard the carriage drive off which should take all these to the train. There was silence for a time which finally was interrupted by a tap at the door.

“Come in,” called Edna.

The door opened, and in walked Ben with a large red book under his arm. “Hello, you little old scalawag,” he said. “What in the world did you go and do this for?”

“I couldn’t help it,” said Edna apologetically.

“You poor, little, old kitten, of course you couldn’t. Well, I have brought you up Mr. Fox, and I wanted to tell you that the lady by the willow has had another accident; she dropped her last chocolate marshmallow and the dog stepped on it. Of course, that wasn’t as bad as the first, but when you have only one handkerchief it is pretty hard to have to cry it twice full of tears. Fortunately, hers has had a chance to dry between whiles.”

Edna smiled. It was good to have Ben come in with his nonsense. “Hasn’t she found her eyelash yet?”

“No, and it was a wet one which is awfully hard to find unless it is raining; it is hard enough then, goodness knows. How did you stand all the racket this morning? If a noisy noise annoys an oyster, how much of a noisy noise does it take to annoy Pinky Blooms? That sounds like a problem in mental arithmetic, but it isn’t. Shall I read to you a little?”

“Oh, please.”

“About Reynard, the Fox, shall it be?”

“Oh, yes. I do so want to know how he lost his tail.”

“Then, here goes,” said Ben, as he opened the big, red book. Edna settled herself back against the pillows and Ben began the story, while Edna was so interested that she forgot all about her headache. He finished the tale before he put the book down. “How do you like it?” he asked.

“It is perfectly fine. Are there other stories in that book?”

“Yes, some mighty good ones. Here, do you want to see the pictures? They are funny and old-fashioned, but they are pretty good for all that.” He laid the book across Edna’s knees and showed her the illustrations relating to Reynard, the Fox, all of which interested her vastly.

“I am so glad I know about this book,” she said as she came to the last page. “I always thought it was only for grown-ups, and never even looked at it. Will you read me some more to-morrow?”

“Sorry I can’t, ducky dear, for I am off by the morning train to a football game which I can’t miss.”

“Oh, I forgot about that. Are the boys going, too?”

“Yes, and Celia. We are all going back together. There is something on at the Evanses Saturday night, and Celia wouldn’t miss that.”

“Neither would you,” said Edna slyly.

“You’re a mean, horrid, little girl,” said Ben in a high, little voice. “I’m just going to take my book and go home, so I am.”

“It isn’t your book; it is grandma’s.”

“I don’t care if it is; I’m not going to play with you, and I will slap your doll real hard.”

“Do you mean Serena? She isn’t my doll; she is grandma’s. Her name is Serena, don’t you remember? I’ve known her ever since I was a little, little thing.”

“And what are you now but a little, little thing, I should like to know.”

“I’m bigger than Lulie Willis, but I’m not big enough to go to Agnes’s party Saturday night.” She spoke somewhat soberly, for she did want to be there.

“Oh, never mind,” said Ben, with an air of comforting her, “I shall be there and I am as big as two of you.”

“I don’t see how that makes it any better,” said Edna, after searching her mind for a reason why it should be of any comfort to her.

“Oh, yes it does,” returned Ben, “for if I were only as big as you I shouldn’t be there either.”

“As if that helped it.”

“Oh, yes it does, for, you see, they will have a lot of good things and I can eat enough for you and me both, I am sure,” he added triumphantly. “That is an excellent argument. If a thing can be done for two persons instead of one, it makes all the difference in the world.”

Edna put her head back against the pillows. Ben was too much for her when he took that stand.

“There,” said the lad contritely, “I’m making your head worse by my foolishness. Are you tired? Is there anything I can do for you? Would you like one of the kittens?”

“Oh, yes, Ben, I would. They are so comforting and cozy. I am glad you thought of that.”

“Shall I leave the red book or take it down?”

“Leave it, please; I might like to look at it after a while.”

So Ben went off, returning directly with one of the kittens which he deposited on the bed and which presently cuddled close to the child. Then Ben left her, Serena by her side and the kitten purring contentedly in her arms.