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.

The man scalded a finger and thumb pouring water into the flared mouth,
but after a moment twisted on the top and hurried into the sick-room.

He reached the old negress just as another knife of pain set her
writhing and sweating. She seized the hot-water bottle, pushed it under
the quilts, and pressed it to her stomach, then lay with eyes and teeth
clenched tight, and her thick lips curled in a grin of agony.

Peter set the lamp on the table, said he was going for the doctor, and
started.