CHAPTER XXII.
DAISY'S ILLNESS.
About an hour after the doctor has gone that morning the garden gate is rather hastily opened, and there is a ring at the door-bell. The Mr. Talboys, in the last stage of anxiety, have arrived to inquire about their little favourite.
"Now, my dear Miss Honor," they both cry, each seizing one of her hands, "is there nothing we can do—either for the poor child or for yourselves, you know? I am quite sure there must be something, if we can only think of it. Calves-foot jelly now, for instance. Mrs. Edwards makes most delicious calves-foot jelly. She shall make some this very day—eh, Brother Ben? Yes, we'll call at the butcher's on our way home and see if they have any calves' feet, and if not, why, they must kill a calf, that's all."
Then the two old gentlemen explain that they had met Dr. Sinclair in the village, and he had told them about poor little Daisy—the first they had heard of it; and so they had come right off to inquire without delay.
"And now," says Mr. Benjamin, taking the initiative for once, "you must remember your promise, Miss Honor, my dear, to let my brother and myself know at once if you can think of anything—no matter what—that we can do for you. Now Priscilla, for instance. Don't you think she would be a help if we sent her over to you for a few hours every day? I don't mean actually for the nursing, but to give assistance in a general sort of way in the house, you know. She is a good-natured, warm-hearted girl, is Priscilla, and I am sure would be glad to turn her hand to anything—eh, Brother Ned?"
"Just so, just so," agrees Mr. Edward, planting his stick firmly on the floor; "a very excellent idea, Brother Ben; but of course it is to be exactly as Miss Honor thinks herself. And now we must not waste her time any more. You will give Daisy the flowers, with our love, and—oh, yes, I remember—the boy will be round by and by with a few little things that we thought might be useful. Good-bye, good-bye!"
And before Honor has a chance of saying a word of thanks off the brothers trot together, waving their hands smilingly to her as they look back from the gate.
It is a long, long time, however, before poor little Daisy can touch any of the tempting and strengthening things which the kind old gentlemen are constantly sending up to the house, for she soon becomes so much worse that a little of White-star's milk, with soda-water, is almost all she lives upon for some time. It is, indeed, an anxious fortnight for all while Daisy—the pet and darling of the household—lies so weak and helpless, and, in the intervals between the attacks of fever, so patiently on her bed of sickness. Her little frame is so wasted, and her weakness so great, that to those watching around her it sometimes seems as if each breath drawn might free the spirit from the little frail body.
Through all this period of sadness and trouble Dr. Sinclair proves himself a most kind and untiring friend. Indeed, before many days are over the good-hearted young fellow is on perfectly familiar terms with the whole family, and besides attending to his patient he looks after each one individually, from Mrs. Merivale, whom he gets gradually to like and pity, down to young Bobby, whom he finds on his arrival one day prostrated with a violent bilious attack, an almost inevitable consequence of his having taken both dinner and tea with the Mr. Talboys on the previous day. At length there comes a day when the doctor looks even graver than usual as he stands by the bed of his little patient, who has become in those weary days of watching almost as dear to him as a little sister might have been. And his affection is warmly returned by Daisy, who looks forward with feverish excitement to his every visit, lying with her great blue eyes—now seeming so much larger in the thin, pale, little face—turning ever towards the door, and gleaming with brightness the moment the step of her "dear old doctor," as she calls him, is heard outside. Once in the room his presence has a singularly soothing influence upon the child; and more than once has the sleepless, weary little body succumbed to the almost magnetic touch of his large, cool hand, when, resting it firmly but gently upon her forehead, he has stood and watched the heavy eyelids droop and droop, until, if only for a few minutes, his little patient sleeps.