CHAPTER XX BROTHERS OF ANGELS
“Indeed, doctor,” said Mrs. Schofield, with agitation and profound conviction, just after eight o'clock that evening, “I shall ALWAYS believe in mustard plasters—mustard plasters and hot—water bags. If it hadn't been for them I don't believed he'd have LIVED till you got here—I do NOT!”
“Margaret,” called Mr. Schofield from the open door of a bedroom, “Margaret, where did you put that aromatic ammonia? Where's Margaret?”
But he had to find the aromatic spirits of ammonia himself, for Margaret was not in the house. She stood in the shadow beneath a maple tree near the street corner, a guitar-case in her hand; and she scanned with anxiety a briskly approaching figure. The arc light, swinging above, revealed this figure as that of him she awaited. He was passing toward the gate without seeing her, when she arrested him with a fateful whisper.
“BOB!”
Mr. Robert Williams swung about hastily. “Why, Margaret!”
“Here, take your guitar,” she whispered hurriedly. “I was afraid if father happened to find it he'd break it all to pieces!”
“What for?” asked the startled Robert.
“Because I'm sure he knows it's yours.” “But what——”
“Oh, Bob,” she moaned, “I was waiting here to tell you. I was so afraid you'd try to come in——”