After a week, or less, they made a bed for her in a room adjoining the
kitchen, and once a day they put her in a great arm-chair and wheeled
her into her place by the neuk window.
"It will be more heartsome for her," said Rotha when she suggested the
change; "she'll like for us to talk to her all the same that she can't
answer us, poor soul."
So it came about that every morning the invalid spent an hour or two
in her familiar seat by the great ingle, the chair she had sat in day
after day in the bygone times, before these terrible disasters had
come like the breath of a plague-wind and bereft her of her powers.
"I wonder if she remembers what happened," said Willy; "do you think
she has missed them--father and Ralph?"
"Why, surely," said Rotha. "But her ears are better than her eyes.
Don't you mark how quick her breath comes sometimes when she has heard
your voice outside, and how bright her eyes are, and how she tries to
say, 'God bless you!' as you come up to her?"
"Yes, I think I've marked it," said Willy, "and I've seen that light
in her eyes die away into a blank stare or puzzled look, as if she
wanted to ask some question while she lifted them to my face.
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