"'Yes,' says I, 'I know I got this one, but I took the first I came
across, and it isn't hurt a mite.'
"'Don't get the painted flowers wet,' says Mrs. Dennison very
feebly, 'they'll wash off if you do.'
"'I'll be real careful,' says I. I knew she set a sight by that
painted tumbler.
"The water seemed to do Mrs. Dennison good, for presently she
pushed Mrs. Bird away and sat up. She had been laying down on my
bed.
"'I'm all over it now,' says she, but she was terribly white, and
her eyes looked as if they saw something outside things. Mrs. Bird
wasn't much better, but she always had a sort of settled sweet,
good look that nothing could disturb to any great extent. I knew I
looked dreadful, for I caught a glimpse of myself in the glass, and
I would hardly have known who it was.
"Mrs. Dennison, she slid off the bed and walked sort of tottery to
a chair. 'I was silly to give way so,' says she.
"'No, you wasn't silly, sister,' says Mrs. Bird. 'I don't know
what this means any more than you do, but whatever it is, no one
ought to be called silly for being overcome by anything so
different from other things which we have known all our lives.
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