She knew it herself, though nothing was said about it before her, and
she had her own thoughts about it in her mind, which she expressed to
Lucy when no one else was there.

"I've got the affection fever, Lucy," she said. "I'm sure I have, 'cos I
asked God to make Maudie better 'cos it wasn't her fault, and I said I
wouldn't mind if I had it, 'cos it was my fault."

And poor Lucy, not knowing what to say, turned away to hide the tears in
her eyes.

"I don't think we need be anxious about her," said Mrs. Caryll to the
doctor, "she is so much stronger than Maudie."

But Dr. Reynolds did not reply very heartily; the truth being that he
saw from the first that Hoodie was likely to be much more ill than
Maudie had been. And Hoodie herself from the first, too, seemed to have
a strange, babyish instinct that it was so.

"I'm glad Maudie is better," she said often during the first day or
two, to Lucy, "'cos you know it wasn't her fault. I don't mind having
the affection fever, but it is rather sore. Everybody loves Maudie so,
it's a good thing she's better."

"But everybody loves you too, Miss Hoodie," said Lucy, tenderly,
"specially when you're such a good, patient little girl."

Hoodie made a movement as if she would have shaken her head, only the
poor little head was too heavy and aching to shake.

"No, Lucy," she said, "not like Maudie, 'cos she's so good, and I'm not.
I did try, but I had to leave off. And my bird's dead, you know, though
I did ask God to take care of it every time I said my prayers. But I'm
glad God's made Maudie better. I 'appose it's 'cos she's good. But I
don't mind having the fever--not now my bird's dead, 'cos he did love
me, didn't he, Lucy?"

Her mind was beginning to wander, and for many days and nights Hoodie
knew nothing of anything that passed about her. Sometimes she seemed in
a sort of stupor, at others she would talk incessantly in her little
weak childish voice, till it made one's heart ache to hear her. She did
not suffer so much from her throat as Maudie had done, though otherwise
so much more ill. The fever seemed to have seized her in its strong,
cruel arms with so hard a grasp, that often and often it appeared to
those about her as if it never again would let her go, but would carry
her away out of their sight, without her even being able to bid them
good-bye--murmuring ever those sad words which seemed to be burnt into
her childish brain, about nobody loving her because sh