Her mother was in bed, lying back on raised pillows, and with a restless, half-pettish look on her face.
"Where have you been ?" she asked querulously, her voice husky and feeble, as if from a severe cold.

"Why are you so late ?" Ida did not answer at once, but went straight to the bed and offered the accustomed kiss.

Her mother waved her off.
"No, no; don't kiss me.

Can't you see what a sore throat I've got?
You might catch it.

And I haven't got you any tea," she went on, her face growing to a calmer expression as she gazed at the child "Ain't I a naughty mother?
But it serves you half right for being late.