It was a remedy that she used herself.
Poor Matilda was furious both with Madame's warm-water cure and Miss Mulberry's pill-box.

She had a morbid hatred of being "doctored," which is often characteristic of chest complaints.

She struggled harder than ever to work, in spite of her headaches; she ceased to complain of them, and concealed her cough to a great extent, by a process known amongst us as "smothering." The one remedy she pined for--fresh air--was the last that either Miss Mulberry or Madame considered appropriate to any form of a "cold." This craving for fresh air helped Matilda in her struggle with illness.
Our daily "promenade" was dull enough, but it was in the open air; and to be kept indoors, either as a punishment for ill-said lessons, or as a cure for her cough, was Matilda's great dread.
Night after night, when Madame had paid her final visit to our rooms, and we were safe, did Eleanor creep out of bed and noiselessly lower the upper sash of our window to please Matilda; whilst I sat (sometimes for an hour or more) upon the bolster of the bed in which Matilda and I slept together, and "nursed her head." What quaint, pale, grave little maids we were! As full of aches and pains, and small anxieties, and self-repression, and tender sympathy, as any other daughters of Mother Eve.
Eleanor and I have often since said that we believe we should make excellent nurses for the insane, looking back upon our treatment of poor Matilda.

We knew exactly when to be authoritative, and when to sympathize almost abjectly.

I became skilful in what we called "nursing her head," which meant much more than that I supported it on my knees.
Softly, but firmly, I stroked her brow and temples with both hands, and passed my fingers through her hair to the back of her head.