The Solitary Summer

"Has this child eaten anything to-day?" "She won't." "Is she not thirsty?" "She won't drink coffee or milk." "I'll send her something she may like, and I shall send, too, for the doctor." "I'll not give her his stuff." "Let me beg you to do as he tells you." "I'll not give her his stuff." "Was it absolutely necessary to wash to-day?" "It's the day." "My good woman," said I to myself, gazing at her with outward blandness, "I'd like exceedingly to tip you up into your wash-tub and thump you as thoroughly as you are thumping those unfortunate clothes." Aloud I said in flute-like tones of conciliation, "Good afternoon." "Good afternoon," said she without looking up.