mango and jackfruit and palm blossomed. The coleus and poinsettias overflowed their earthenware tubs. Only the section of English flowers, which Mr. Welles tended so carefully—violets and nasturtiums and phlox—suffered in the rain and heat, turning brown or growing in wild and irregular straggles of stem, leaf, and flower.
Amala and Kamala stayed out in the compound under a sheltering roof, but whenever the rains stopped, they would leave their little net-covered lean-to to lie outside, a rain cloud of mosquitoes buzzing over their heads.
Amala began to sleep more and more. She stopped eating, drank but little. After two days of it I spoke fearfully to Mrs. Welles.
“She does not wake up,” I said.
“It is this rain,” said Mrs. Welles, dabbing at her forehead with a handkerchief and sighing. Everything in the house seemed damp. “How the good Lord made a country with such weather is beyond me. I have always wondered that you Indians have prospered at all. Weeks of battering rains, months of stifling heat.”
“She has not awakened at all today,” I repeated.
Mrs. Welles looked down at me. “Not at all, Mohandas? Are you sure?”
“Not once,” I said, only slightly exaggerating. Amala had looked up—once. Her eyes had been glazed over. I did not think she had recognized me.
Mrs. Welles hesitated no longer, but gave a running commentary on her own faults as she saw them as we strode along the corridor. “I should not have left their care so much to you, Mohandas, but there were the accounts to do. And the quarter-year report to help Mr. Welles with. Oh, you have done well, and you have been infinitely patient with the wolf-children. I would not have thought it possible of an adolescent boy. But you are a boy. And a native at that, for all you are intelligent and a Christian now. But I should have set aside the reports. Oh, Mohandas, she has not waked once?”
Amala was awake when we got to the wall. She was moaning and thrashing convulsively. Mrs. Welles picked her up and carried her into the house. Amala was so weak she did not seem to notice.
Kamala followed us to the doorway. The sound of her howling protest followed us down the hall.
Mrs. Welles brought Amala into the sickroom and laid her down in one of the cribs.
“Quick, fetch Mr. Welles,” she said. Then, almost as an afterthought, she added, “And some ice from Cook.” She looked down at Amala and shook her head.
Suddenly I was afraid. I ran swiftly to Mr. Welles’ study, practicing what I would say, and so great was my worry I entered without knocking. He looked up, surprised at my intrusion.
“Mohandas!”
“Your lady wife bids you come at once,” I said. “To the sickroom. It is Amala.”
“The younger one?” he asked, rising.
I nodded. “Ice,” I managed, my voice breaking on that single word. Then I turned and ran down the hallway, turned right and then right again into the kitchen. Behind me, I knew, the other children were gathering. I could hear their bare feet pattering along the floor.
Cook was sitting in the rocking chair Mrs. Welles had given her as a peace offering, a gift to make her stay despite the burden of the wolf-children. Cook took many rockings during her day now, and meals were even scantier and less appetizing than before. She looked up as I ran in, but only the widening of her eyes showed she was disturbed.
“Mrs. Welles needs ice,” I said.
She grunted and gestured with her hand toward the icehouse outside, signaling me to get it myself.
I went through the door. It was raining again, but I ran quickly to the little house that lay under the mounds of dirt insulation. Until I had come to The Home, I had never seen ice. Opening the door, I was engulfed in the cool air. I coughed, and my breath plumed out before me. I took the ice pick from its hook on the wall and managed to chip off several large pieces, which I wrapped with some linen cloth hanging by the door.
I raced back to the sickroom,
Amala and Kamala stayed out in the compound under a sheltering roof, but whenever the rains stopped, they would leave their little net-covered lean-to to lie outside, a rain cloud of mosquitoes buzzing over their heads.
Amala began to sleep more and more. She stopped eating, drank but little. After two days of it I spoke fearfully to Mrs. Welles.
“She does not wake up,” I said.
“It is this rain,” said Mrs. Welles, dabbing at her forehead with a handkerchief and sighing. Everything in the house seemed damp. “How the good Lord made a country with such weather is beyond me. I have always wondered that you Indians have prospered at all. Weeks of battering rains, months of stifling heat.”
“She has not awakened at all today,” I repeated.
Mrs. Welles looked down at me. “Not at all, Mohandas? Are you sure?”
“Not once,” I said, only slightly exaggerating. Amala had looked up—once. Her eyes had been glazed over. I did not think she had recognized me.
Mrs. Welles hesitated no longer, but gave a running commentary on her own faults as she saw them as we strode along the corridor. “I should not have left their care so much to you, Mohandas, but there were the accounts to do. And the quarter-year report to help Mr. Welles with. Oh, you have done well, and you have been infinitely patient with the wolf-children. I would not have thought it possible of an adolescent boy. But you are a boy. And a native at that, for all you are intelligent and a Christian now. But I should have set aside the reports. Oh, Mohandas, she has not waked once?”
Amala was awake when we got to the wall. She was moaning and thrashing convulsively. Mrs. Welles picked her up and carried her into the house. Amala was so weak she did not seem to notice.
Kamala followed us to the doorway. The sound of her howling protest followed us down the hall.
Mrs. Welles brought Amala into the sickroom and laid her down in one of the cribs.
“Quick, fetch Mr. Welles,” she said. Then, almost as an afterthought, she added, “And some ice from Cook.” She looked down at Amala and shook her head.
Suddenly I was afraid. I ran swiftly to Mr. Welles’ study, practicing what I would say, and so great was my worry I entered without knocking. He looked up, surprised at my intrusion.
“Mohandas!”
“Your lady wife bids you come at once,” I said. “To the sickroom. It is Amala.”
“The younger one?” he asked, rising.
I nodded. “Ice,” I managed, my voice breaking on that single word. Then I turned and ran down the hallway, turned right and then right again into the kitchen. Behind me, I knew, the other children were gathering. I could hear their bare feet pattering along the floor.
Cook was sitting in the rocking chair Mrs. Welles had given her as a peace offering, a gift to make her stay despite the burden of the wolf-children. Cook took many rockings during her day now, and meals were even scantier and less appetizing than before. She looked up as I ran in, but only the widening of her eyes showed she was disturbed.
“Mrs. Welles needs ice,” I said.
She grunted and gestured with her hand toward the icehouse outside, signaling me to get it myself.
I went through the door. It was raining again, but I ran quickly to the little house that lay under the mounds of dirt insulation. Until I had come to The Home, I had never seen ice. Opening the door, I was engulfed in the cool air. I coughed, and my breath plumed out before me. I took the ice pick from its hook on the wall and managed to chip off several large pieces, which I wrapped with some linen cloth hanging by the door.
I raced back to the sickroom,
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