"Where have you been?" she asked querulously, her voice husky and
feeble, as if from a severe cold. "Why are you so late?"

Ida did not answer at once, but went straight to the bed and offered
the accustomed kiss. Her mother waved her off.

"No, no; don't kiss me. Can't you see what a sore throat I've got?
You might catch it. And I haven't got you any tea," she went on, her
face growing to a calmer expression as she gazed at the child "Ain't
I a naughty mother? But it serves you half right for being late.
Come and kiss me; I don't think it's catching. No, perhaps you'd
better not."

But Ida started forward at the granted leave, and kissed her warmly.

"There now," went on the hoarse voice complainingly, "I shouldn't
wonder if you catch it, and we shall both be laid up at once. Oh,
Ida, I do feel that poorly, I do! It's the draught under the door;
what else can it be? I do, I do feel that poorly!"

She began to cry miserably. Ida forgot all about the tale she had to
tell; her own eyes overflowed in sympathy. She put her arm under her
mother's neck, and pressed cheek to cheek tenderly.

"Oh, how hot you are, mother! Shall I get you a cup of tea, dear?
Wouldn't it make your throat better?"

"Perhaps it would; I don't know. Don't go away, not just yet. You'll
have to be a mother to me to-night, Ida. I almost feel I could go to
sleep, if you held me like that."