"When I
come in ten minutes ago, she was tryin' to eat the sheet."
"Didn't you give her the medicine the doctor left last time?"
"There ain't a drop left. Mr. Snawdor took every bit of it."
"Where's the bottle? We must get it filled."
"What's the use? It ain't no good. I was handlin' Fidy's fits before that
there young dispensary doctor was out of knee pants. Besides I ain't got
fifty cents in the house."
Nance stood for a moment irresolute. She looked at the writhing figure on
the bed; then she snatched up her hat and jacket.
"Quick! Where's the bottle?" she cried. "I got the money."
But after the medicine had been bought, and Fidy had grown quiet under
its influence, Nance went across the hall to her own cold, barren room
and flung herself across her narrow bed. The last chance of seeing the
play had vanished. The only light of hope that had shone on her horizon
for months had gone out.
When she got up, cold and miserable, and lighted the gas, she saw on
the floor, where it had evidently been slipped under the door, a
mysterious pink envelope. Tearing it open, she found, written in a
large, loose scrawl:
"Dear Nance. We have just struck town. Reckon you thought I was a
quitter, but I ain't. You be at the Gaiety to-morrow morning at nine A.M.
Maybe I can land you something. Don't say a word to anybody about it, and
make yourself look as pretty as you can, and don't be late. Don't tell my
folks I'm here. I got a room down-town.
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