"Oh, it doesn't ache exactly, but I do not feel hungry. No, I am not
sick, Prudence, so don't stew about it. I'm just not hungry. The meat
is too greasy, and the potatoes are lumpy. I think I'll take a
cinnamon roll." But she only picked it to pieces idly. Prudence
watched her with the intense suspicious gaze of a frightened mother
bird.

"There are some canned oysters out there, Carol. If I make you some
soup, will you eat it?"

This was a great concession, for the canned oysters were kept in
anticipation of unexpected company. But Carol shook her head
impatiently. "I am not hungry at all," she said.

"I'll open some pineapple, or those beautiful pickled peaches Mrs.
Adams gave us, or--or anything, if you'll just eat something, Carrie."

Still Carol shook her head. "I said I wasn't hungry, Prudence." But
her face was growing very red, and her eyes were strangely bright. She
moved her hands with unnatural restless motions, and frequently lifted
her shoulders in a peculiar manner.

"Do your shoulders hurt, Carol?" asked her father, who was also
watching her anxiously.

"Oh, it feels kind of--well--tight, I guess, in my chest. But it
doesn't hurt. It hurts a little when I breathe deep."

"Is your throat still sore, Carol?" inquired Lark. "Don't you remember