“Oh, dear, no. There was a telegram from him. He reached West Point all right, and all is going well. Now, I shall give you a composing draught and order you to sleep all the afternoon.”
“And the fever?” tremulously.
“That’s simply cold and nervousness. You will be about well tomorrow,” and he laughed.
“Mrs. Barrington was—oh, I suppose the girls who stayed had a dull time.”
“I didn’t hear any complaints. I guess they are all right. Don’t you worry about them or anybody.”
If she could hear that Louie Howe was well; maybe Phil would write tomorrow. Oh, she couldn’t be seriously ill or the doctor wouldn’t be so indifferent about it. If she only could go to sleep and forget about the Clairvoyant’s awful den!