Things, suddenly, seemed going black. If he'd only stop a minute! Wouldn't he ever stop? How could she make him stop? What could she do?
The whole world, just then, seemed to be composed of the increasing tumult in her throat, the piercing conflict in her head, and those maddening strokes—strokes—strokes—strokes. How long could she stand it?
Presently, after eons it seemed, she desperately evoked a small, jerky voice.
“I think—it must—be getting worse. Thanks, but—Oh, won't you—please—go away?”
She didn't open her eyes to see whether Mr. Briggs looked hurt, didn't open them to see him leave the room. She was past caring, now, whether he was hurt or not. She thought she must be dying. And she thought she must be dying, later, while Mrs. Bonner, aided by a fluttering, murmuring Louise, attended her with sympathetic ministrations; and again while she was being taken home by Mr. Bonner in the Bonner surrey—she had never dreamed a surrey could bump and lurch and jostle so. But people seldom die of measles; and that was what young Doc Alison, next morning, diagnosed her malady. It seemed that there is more than one kind of measles and that one can go on having one variety after another, ad nauseam, so to speak.
“The case is well developed—you should have called me yesterday,” said young Doc rebukingly.
“I knew you were sick yesterday!” chided mother. “And to think I let you go to that party!”
“Party?” queried young Doc. “What party?—when?”
Then he heard about the function at the Bonners', and Missy's debute.
“Well,” he commented, “I'll bet there'll be a fine little aftermath of measles among the young folks of this town.”