"The bag's here," said the woman, her face drawn and her mouth gasping.
She tried to feel under the pillow.

"Lie you still. I'll get it," said Anne. She drew out a bag of red
flannel, evidently the remnant of an old flannel petticoat, for the tuck
still remained like a grotesque attempt at ornament across the middle of
the bag. The salt slid heavily to one end as Anne drew it out.

"The oven's still warm," she said opening the door and putting her hand
inside. "I'll just slip it in for a few minutes."

"Well," said the woman, "there's not many cares about a bad-tempered,
bed-ridden woman, but you're one of them that's been kind. I don't _say_
much, but I _know_."

"You make me nearly cry," said Anne, drawing the bag out of the oven and
feeling its temperature. Holding it against her chest, as if to keep in
its heat, she drew back the bed-clothes and unbuttoned the flannelette
night-gown of the invalid, laying the poultice against her wasted side.
The woman gave a sob and lay still for a minute.

"It's a lot better," she said.

"Perhaps you could sleep a bit," suggested Anne.

"I'd like a cup o' tea," said the woman, "but it's a lot of trouble.
Can't you look where you're going!" she broke out impatiently, as Anne,
turning quickly, caught her foot in the chair, overturning it with a
crash. "You made me jump so."