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Page 76
"There ain't no tellin'," sobbed Nancy. "She lay back that white
an' still she might easy be dead; but Miss Polly said she wa'n't
dead--an' Miss Polly had oughter know, if any one would--she kept
up such a listenin' an' a feelin' for her heartbeats an' her
breath!"
"Couldn't ye tell anythin' what it done to her?--that--that--"
Old Tom's face worked convulsively.
Nancy's lips relaxed a little.
"I wish ye WOULD call it somethin', Mr. Tom an' somethin' good
an' strong, too. Drat it! Ter think of its runnin' down our
little girl! I always hated the evil-smellin' things, anyhow--I
did, I did!"
"But where is she hurt?"
"I don't know, I don't know," moaned Nancy. "There's a little cut
on her blessed head, but 'tain't bad--that ain't--Miss Polly
says. She says she's afraid it's infernally she's hurt."
A faint flicker came into Old Tom's eyes.
"I guess you mean internally, Nancy," he said dryly. "She's hurt
infernally, all right--plague take that autymobile!--but I don't
guess Miss Polly'd be usin' that word, all the same."
"Eh? Well, I don't know, I don't know," moaned Nancy, with a
shake of her head as she turned away. "Seems as if I jest
couldn't stand it till that doctor gits out o' there. I wish I
had a washin' ter do--the biggest washin' I ever see, I do, I
do!" she wailed, wringing her hands helplessly.
Even after the doctor was gone, however, there seemed to be
little that Nancy could tell Mr. Tom. There appeared to be no
bones broken, and the cut was of slight consequence; but the
doctor had looked very grave, had shaken his head slowly, and had
said that time alone could tell. After he had gone, Miss Polly
had shown a face even whiter and more drawn looking than before.
The patient had not fully recovered consciousness, but at present
she seemed to be resting as comfortably as could be expected. A
trained nurse had been sent for, and would come that night. That
was all. And Nancy turned sobbingly, and went back to her
kitchen.
It was sometime during the next forenoon that Pollyanna opened
conscious eyes and realized where she was.
"Why, Aunt Polly, what's the matter? Isn't it daytime? Why don't
I get up?" she cried. "Why, Aunt Polly, I can't get up," she
moaned, falling back on the pillow, after an ineffectual attempt
to lift herself.
"No, dear, I wouldn't try--just yet," soothed her aunt quickly,
but very quietly.
"But what is the matter? Why can't I get up?"
Miss Polly's eyes asked an agonized question of the white-capped
young woman standing in the window, out of the range of
Pollyanna's eyes.
The young woman nodded.
"Tell her," the lips said.
Miss Polly cleared her throat, and tried to swallow the lump that
would scarcely let her speak.
"You were hurt, dear, by the automobile last night. But never
mind that now. Auntie wants you to rest and go to sleep again."
"Hurt? Oh, yes; I--I ran." Pollyanna's eyes were dazed. She
lifted her hand to her forehead. "Why, it's--done up, and
it--hurts!"
"Yes, dear; but never mind. Just--just rest."
"But, Aunt Polly, I feel so funny, and so bad! My legs feel
so--so queer--only they don't FEEL--at all!"
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