The poor boy looks terribly taken down at this mild reproof, for his devotion to his little sister is great, and there is nothing he would not do for her sake. He almost gulps, therefore, as he explains further that he had tried in vain to make the child leave the spot when once he had remembered how imprudent it was for her to be standing there in the damp.
At this point there is an unexpected diversion, caused by Daisy demanding to be put to bed—a most unprecedented request, it being, as a rule, her one aim and object to keep out of bed as long as possible.
She is taken off, therefore, by Doris and Honor, having first kissed Dick, and stroked his cheek with her feverish little hand, saying:
"It wasn't Dick's fault, you know. I wouldn't come away from the frogs when he wanted me to; so you mustn't scold him, mother, dear."
As the evening wears on the child seems to grow so much worse that Honor consults her mother as to the advisability of sending for the doctor; and in a short time Dick is despatched with a little note begging him to look in as soon as possible. He soon returns, with the information that the doctor is expected in soon, and that the note would be given to him at once. The boy has hardly hung up his cap in the hall when a firm, brisk step is heard on the gravel path outside, and in another minute (the front door being open) Honor, who is crossing the hall, finds herself shaking hands with the young doctor in as friendly a manner as if she had known him all her life.
"I was out at rather an important case," he says, making for the staircase as a matter of course, "when your brother left the note; but I believe I caught sight of him just as he was leaving my place. I was only half-way up that dreadful hill, and not near enough to call to him, or I might have ridden on at once. My horse was tired though, and when I found there was no immediate hurry I thought I had better walk up and see the little patient. Is she in bed, Miss Merivale?"
"Oh, yes," Honor replies, leading the way upstairs; "and as soon as we got her into bed she became very feverish. And she is dreadfully restless, poor child. I hope," stopping abruptly on the landing and facing the doctor, "I do hope, Dr. Sinclair, there is no scarlet fever about here. She is so dreadfully flushed, and so thirsty that Doris—Doris is my eldest sister—and I have been getting quite nervous."
"Do not alarm yourself on that score," says the doctor reassuringly. "I can honestly tell you that there has not been a case of scarlet fever in this healthy village for years. No; your little sister has always looked to me a delicate child, and to tell you the truth I have noticed lately that she has certainly become more fragile than she seemed to be when you first came here. We doctors notice these things where others would not, perhaps. Now for my little patient," and he walks into the room, closely followed by Honor, never noticing the painful flush which his words have called to the poor girl's face.
"She has certainly become more fragile since you came here!"
Yes; these words fall on Honor's heart like lead, and cause it to feel as heavy; for has it not been her constant and painful reflection that ever since they left the old life poor little delicate Daisy, with the exception of White-star's milk, has had very little of the nourishing, strengthening food to which she has been accustomed ever since her birth.