The fiction of diphtheria was kept up, and Mrs. Boyd, having a
childlike faith in medical men, betrayed no anxiety after the first
hour or two. She saw nothing incongruous in Ellen going down
through the house while she herself was kept out of that upper
room where Edith lay, conscious now but sullen, disfigured, silent.
She was happy, too, to have her old domain hers again, while Ellen
nursed; to make again her flavorless desserts, her mounds of
rubberlike gelatine, her pies. She brewed broths daily, and when
Edith could swallow she sent up the results of hours of cooking
which Ellen cooled, skimmed the crust of grease from the top, and
heated again over the gas flame.
She never guessed the conspiracy against her.
Between Ellen and Edith there was no real liking. Ellen did her
duty, and more; got up at night; was gentle with rather heavy
hands; bathed the girl and brushed and braided her long hair. But
there were hours during that simulated quarantine when a brooding
silence held in the sick-room, and when Ellen, turning suddenly,
would find Edith's eyes on her, full of angry distrust. At those
times Ellen was glad that Edith could not speak.
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