and went into the kitchen to get a pitcher of water for the leaves before taking them upstairs to the invalid.
Sheilah liked the kitchen. There were cupboards, hand-grained in golden brown along one side of the room; two rush-bottomed maple chairs she had found in the loft of the barn; a table with a red cloth; and a low, legless, unornamented stove squatting on the floor like a comfortable old cat, its kettle softly purring.
Sheilah ran upstairs with her leaves and brought into the sick-room not only her flame of color, but a smile besides, and a bright, 'I'm going to feed the hens now. I'll turn your chair so you can see me.'
Felix's mother smiled at her. 'You're a good girl, Sheilah,' she murmured, with a significant thickness in her speech.
Sheilah leaned and kissed the invalid gratefully on her forehead.
A few minutes later, standing amidst a fluttering flock: of feathery white leghorns, coral-tipped, sprinkling golden nuggets amidst them, she looked up and waved gayly at Felix's mother.
When she returned to the house she took off her hat and coat—rough, brown, practical affairs, and hung them in a closet off the kitchen, then lifted her
