Sitting down to tea, with no small relief that all was over, John asked his wife after the sick lad.
"He is very ill still, I think."
"Are you sure it is measles?"
"I imagine so; and I have seen nearly all childish diseases, except—no, THAT is quite impossible!" added the mother, hastily. She cast an anxious glance on her little ones; her hand slightly shook as she poured out their cups of milk. "Do you think, John—it was hard to do it when the child is so ill—I ought to have sent them away with the others?"
"Certainly not. If it were anything dangerous, of course Mary Baines would have told us. What are the lad's symptoms?"
As Ursula informed him, I thought he looked more and more serious; but he did not let her see.
"Make your mind easy, love; a word from Dr. Jessop will decide all. I will fetch him after tea. Cheer up! Please God, no harm will come to our little ones!"
The mother brightened again; with her all the rest; and the tea-table clatter went on merry as ever. Then, it being a wet night, Mrs. Halifax gathered her boys round her knee for an evening chat over the kitchen-fire; while through the open door, out of the dim parlour came "Muriel's voice," as we called the harpsichord. It seemed sweeter than ever this night, like—as her father once said, but checked himself, and never said it afterwards—like Muriel talking with angels.
He sat listening awhile, then, without any remark, put on his coat and went out to fetch the good doctor. I followed him down to the stream.
"Phineas," he said, "will you mind—don't notice it to the mother—but mind and keep her and the children down-stairs till I come back?"