Faradeane took it from her.
“Don’t be afraid,” he said, gently, as she clung to it a little.
“Are you a doctor, gentleman?” she asked, looking up at Faradeane, eagerly.
“No, no,” said Bertie. “But you can rely on what he says. What is it, Faradeane?” he asked, in a lower voice.
Faradeane looked at the child attentively.
“Fever,” he said. “The child has been exposed to this charming English spring of ours. Poor mite!”
The woman’s dark eyes grew moist, and her hands clasped together with a spasmodic action.
“Is—is it going to die, gentleman?” she asked, huskily. “It’s—it’s the only one I’ve got left, and—and, bein’ a girl, I’ve got fond of it like,” she added, apologetically.
“I hope it won’t die,” he said, gently, “but it is very bad. This thin shawl—wait a moment,” and he handed the child back to her.
She pressed it to her bosom with a choking sob, and bent over it speechlessly.