My little room in the west gable was _so_ hot.

The sun beat against it all afternoon, and the water in the pitcher wouldn't stay cool.

Sometimes I'd cry till my throat ached, wishing that I had a mother to sit beside me, and put her cool hands against my face, and rub my back when it ached, and sing me to sleep.
And after I got better, and my appetite began to come back, I'd lie and watch the door for hours, it seemed to me, waiting for Cousin Hetty to come up with my meals.

I'd think of all sorts of dainty things that I had read about, until my mouth watered.

Then when she came, maybe there would be nothing but a cup of tea slopped all over the saucer, and a piece of burnt toast.