"Really, doctor," interrupted Mrs. Desmond, "I am sick of giving. It is nothing but give, give nowadays. Why do these poor people have so many children? And, besides, there is always the workhouse. Really I have nothing to give just now."
The doctor turned away shrugging his shoulders, and nearly tumbled over Helen, who, on her way down-stairs, had stopped and overheard the foregoing conversation.
"Hullo! young lady," he cried, "what is the matter with you? Has the east wind been upsetting you too?"
"Oh, no!" returned Helen, "I only—"
"Only what?"
"Do let me come down into the hall with you."
"Run on, I'm coming."
"Oh!" cried Helen as they reached the hall, drawing the doctor out of earshot of the waiting servant, "I have been watching for you all the morning. Do you know that my father is ill?"
"He hasn't sent for me."
"No, because he doesn't want to worry—mamma"—Helen jerked the word out—"now that she is ill herself. But all the same he is very bad. He was in the school-room with me last evening, and he nearly fainted. You must, please, see him."