And then the girl who thought life not worth living, delaying her own preference, with rather reluctant feet--feet clad in pink satin slippers--turned back to the girl who wanted to live badly enough to call for help.
Through one-half of one eye Katie could see her; she was thinking that there was something fine about a girl who wanted to kill herself putting it off long enough to turn back and help some one who wanted to live.
Miss Jones raised her head just a trifle, showed her face long enough to roll her eyes in a grewsome way she had learned at school, and with a "Help me!" buried her face in the sand and lay there quivering.
The girl knelt down.

"You sick ?" she asked, and Katie had the fancy of her voice sounding as though she had not expected to use it any more.
"So ill!" panted Kate, rolling over on her back and holding her heart.
"Here! My heart!" The girl looked around uncertainly.

It must be a jar, Katie conceded, being called back to life, expected to fight for the very thing one was running away from.

Her rescuer was evidently considering going to the river for water--saving water (Katie missed none of those fine points)--but instead she pulled the patient to a sitting position, supporting her.
"You can breathe better this way, can't you ?" she asked solicitously.
"Have you had them before?
Will it go away?
Shall I call some one ?" Katie rolled her head about as she had seen people do who were dying on the stage.

"Often--before.