This time something in her tone alarmed Peter. He paused in the doorway.
“Are you sick, Mother?” he asked.
The old woman gave a yawn that changed to a groan.
“I—I ain't feelin' so good.”
“What's the matter, Mother?”
“My stomach, my—” But at that moment her sentence changed to an inarticulate sound, and she doubled up in bed as if caught in a spasm of acute agony.
Peter hurried to her, thoroughly frightened, and saw sweat streaming down her face. He stared down at her.
“Mother, you are sick! What can I do?” he cried, with a man's helplessness.
She opened her eyes with an effort, panting now as the edge of the agony passed. There was a movement under the quilts, and she thrust out a rubber hot-water bottle.
“Fill it—fum de kittle,” she wheezed out, then relaxed into groans, and wiped clumsily at the sweat on her shining black face.
Peter seized the bottle and ran into the kitchen. There he found a brisk fire popping in the stove and a kettle of water boiling. It showed him, to his further alarm, that his mother had been trying to minister to herself until forced to bed.
