"But perhaps," suggested Mr. Black, "this illness has altered his appearance."
"It couldn't change his hair," asserted Mabel. "It's a very queer color."
"Yes," agreed Mrs. Crane, "it's a most unusual shade—very bright and glistening like ruddy gold. There's a tinge of copper to it and yet it's golden. If only Dave were here——"
"I could walk to Lakeville myself," began Mr. Black, reflectively, "but——"
"But you're not going to," protested his sister. "We can't stay here without a man. Besides, if anything happened to you on the way down, where should we be?"
"At Pete's Patch, I suspect," twinkled Mr. Black. "Suppose you give that boy some hot sponge baths—that may help a little."
"But, goodness!" objected Mabel, "he must be perfectly soaked with water—his clothes were drenched."
"Still," said Mr. Black, "baths are beneficial to fever patients."
"I've been putting mild mustard plasters on his chest," confessed anxious Mrs. Crane. "I didn't like his breathing—it sounded too much like pneumonia yesterday; but it's a bit better to-day. And I'll try those baths."
"I haven't much faith in your mustard plasters," asserted Mr. Black, teasingly. "You're too tender-hearted to make one strong enough to do any good."