“No; I'll not take any.”
“Missis says too, sir, that Miss Blanche is tuk poorly, and has a shiverin' over her, and a bad headache, and she hopes you 'll send in for Dr. Tobin.”
“Is she in bed?”
“Yes, sir, please.”
“I'll go up and see her;” and with this he arose and passed up the little stair that led to the nursery. In one bed a little dark-haired girl of about three years old lay fast asleep; in the adjoining bed a bright blue-eyed child of two years or less lay wide awake, her cheeks crimson, and the expression of her features anxious and excited. Her mother was bathing her temples with cold water as Sewell entered, and was talking in a voice of kind and gentle meaning to the child.
“That stupid woman of yours said it was Blanche,” said Sewell, pettishly, as he gazed at the little girl.
“I told her it was Cary; she has been heavy all day, and eaten nothing. No, pet,—no, darling,” said she, stooping over the sick child, “pa is not angry; he is only sorry that little Cary is ill.”
“I suppose you'd better have Tobin to see her,” said he, coldly. “I 'll tell George to take the tax-cart and fetch him out. It's well it was n't Blanche,” muttered he, as he sauntered out of the room. His wife's eyes followed him as he went, and never did a human face exhibit a stronger show of repressed passion than hers, as, with closely compressed lips and staring eyes, she watched him as he passed out.
“The fool frightened me,—she said it was Blanche,” were the words he continued to mutter as he went down the stairs.
Tobin arrived in due time, and pronounced the case not serious,—a mere feverish attack that only required a day or two of care and treatment.