“You know I have to take the service over at Cherril to-night,” said Mr Roy to his wife one morning. “They’ve asked me to dine there afterwards. You won’t mind my leaving you? I shall get back by ten.”
“Oh, no!” replied Mrs Roy readily, though in truth she was not fond of spending the evening at Truslow Manor alone. “I shall have Biddy down to sit with me; and I do think baby seems better to-day. It’s a long walk for you, though, Richard, and there’s no moon.”
“Oh, I’ll take a lantern!” said the curate, and accordingly he started off that afternoon on his six-miles walk thus provided.
Biddy and her mistress spent the evening together, talking softly over their needlework, so as not to disturb Dulcie’s sleep in the cradle near. The glowing fire, the cheerful room, and Mrs Roy’s kind chat were almost sufficient to drive away Biddy’s usual terrors; at any rate she forgot them for a time, and was peacefully happy. But this did not last long. Suddenly the baby’s breathing became hoarse and difficult, and Mrs Roy, kneeling at the side of the cradle, looked up in alarm at her nurse.
“Oh, Biddy,” she cried, “what is the matter with her? See how she struggles for breath!”
“Lift her up, mum,” suggested Biddy, “perhaps she’ll be more easy-like.”
But Dulcie was not easy-like. On the contrary, her tiny face grew almost purple, she gasped, clenched her fists, and seemed on the point of choking.
“Biddy,” said Mrs Roy calmly, but with despair written on every feature, “I believe it’s croup!”
Biddy stood speechless. Here was a case outside her experience; she could offer no suggestion—not one of the Lane babies had ever had croup.
“Get hot water,” said Mrs Roy, “and then run as fast as you can for the doctor. Take a lantern. Run, Biddy, run—” for the girl stood motionless—“every minute is of consequence.”