"Does it, you dear blessed baby? Let Daddy cuddle your head in his arm, so, and sing to you, maybe that will help."
But when Mr. Fayre gently put his arm under the golden head on the pillow Dolly cried out that his coat sleeve was too scratchy.
"Well, now, we'll just fix that! Give me one of your dressing gowns, Mother."
Dolly had to laugh a little when Mrs. Fayre brought a silk kimono of her own and managed to get its loose folds draped around her stalwart husband.
"Now I rather guess we won't scratch our poor little fevery cheeks," and Mr. Fayre so deftly slipped his silk clad arm under Dolly's head, that she rested in his strong clasp with a feeling of security and comfort.
"That's lovely, Daddy; it just seems as if I had some of your big strong strength and my pain doesn't hurt so much."
Then Mr. Fayre sang in soft low tones which greatly soothed the little patient. But not for long. All through the night the paroxysms of agony would recur and poor little Dolly cried like a baby, because she couldn't possibly help it.
But the Rose family had even worse times to take care of Dotty. She, too, suffered intensely and even made it worse because she wouldn't stay still. With a sudden jerk she would sit up in bed and then scream with the pain occasioned by wrenching her injured arm.
"You mustn't do that, dear," said Mr. Rose, who usually could calm Dotty in her most wilful moments.
"I have to!" cried the little girl; "you would, too, if your arm was all on fire, and shooting needles into you and not set right and has to be broken over again and all twisted up and hanging by a thread, anyway! Ow!—ow!—OW!!" Her voice rose in a shrill screech and she rocked back and forth in her pain and anger.