"
"It is very much turned indeed," said Mary. "How wise it was of Papa
not to let Sylvia sleep with her! What will he do with her? Oh
dear!"
CHAPTER XIII.
The Sunday at Oldburgh was not spent as Kate would have had it. It
dawned upon her in the midst of horrid dreams, ending by wakening to
an overpowering sick headache, the consequence of the agitations and
alarms of the previous day, and the long fast, appeased by the
contents of the pastry-cook's shop, with the journey and the
excitement of the meeting--altogether quite sufficient to produce
such a miserable feeling of indisposition, that if Kate could have
thought at all of anything but present wretchedness, she would have
feared that she was really carrying out the likeness to Cardinal
Wolsey by laying her bones among them.
That it was not quite so bad as that, might be inferred from her
having no doctor but Mary Wardour, who attended to her most
assiduously from her first moans at four o'clock in the morning, till
her dropping off to sleep about noon; when the valiant Mary, in the
absence of everyone at church, took upon herself to pen a note, to
catch the early Sunday post, on her own responsibility, to Lady
Barbara Umfraville, to say that her little cousin was so unwell that
it would be impossible to carry out the promise of bringing her home
on Monday, which Mr. Wardour had written on Saturday night.
Sleep considerably repaired her little ladyship; and when she had
awakened, and supped up a bason of beef-tea, toast and all, with
considerable appetite, she was so much herself again, that there was
no reason that anyone should be kept at home to attend to her.
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