Page:Emily Climbs.pdf/269

“Meanwhile, this is an adventure,” laughed Emily. “Let’s get all the fun out of it we can.”

Ilse said nothing—which was very odd in Ilse. Emily, looking at her, saw that she was very pale and recalled that she had been unusually quiet ever since they had left the hall.

“Aren't you feeling all right, Ilse?” she asked anxiously.

“I’m feeling all wrong,” said Ilse, with a ghastly smile. “I’m—I’m sick as a dog,” she added, with more force than elegance.

“Oh, Ilse———”

“Don’t hit the ceiling,” said Ilse impatiently. “I’m not beginning pneumonia or appendictis. I’m just plain sick. That pie I had at the hall was too rich, I suppose. It’s turned my little tummy upside down. O—w—w.”

“Lie down on the sofa,” urged Emily. “Perhaps you'll feel better then.”

Ilse, shuddering and abject, cast herself down. A “sick stomach” is not a romantic ailment or a very deadly one, but it certainly takes the ginger out of its victim for the time being.

The boys, finding a box full of wood behind the stove, soon had a roaring fire. Perry took one of the candles and explored the little house. In a small room opening off the kitchen was an old-fashioned wooden bedstead with a rope mattress. The other room—it had been Almira Shaw’s parlour in olden days—was half filled with oat-straw. Upstairs there was nothing but emptiness and dust. But in the little pantry Perry made some finds.

“There’s a can of pork and beans here,” he announced, “and a tin box half full of crackers. I see our breakfast. I s’pose the Shaw boys left them here. And what’s this?”

Perry brought out a small bottle, uncorked and sniffed it solemnly.

“Whiskey, as I’m a living sinner. Not much, but enough. Here’s your medicine, Ilse. You take it in some hot water and it’ll settle your stomach in a jiffy.”