The man, an old friend of the family, re-examined her most thoroughly, and noted the symptoms again. Mrs. Wilkinson watched anxiously at the bedside, and Queenie, in the doorway, was very near to tears.
“Pleurisy!” he muttered finally. “I feared it yesterday.” Then he gave Mrs. Wilkinson some directions, and went down stairs in search of her husband. Stealthily Queenie followed, pausing in the hall, to hear if possible the real verdict.
“It looks pretty serious to me, Wilkinson,” she heard the doctor say; “Marjorie’s condition is poor—she is completely run down. I should advise a nurse.”
Queenie stifled a sob, not only at the gravity of her illness, but at the idea of bringing in some one strange to do for her what Queenie herself longed to do. If she were only a nurse!
“Certainly—by all means,” Mr. Wilkinson was saying. “Will you arrange for it, Doctor?”
“Yes; I’ll get the most capable one I know of—and hope to have her here by noon. In the meantime, Mrs. Wilkinson has directions.”
Queenie could restrain herself no longer; she burst into the room and took hold of the doctor’s coat lapels.
“You—you don’t think that she will die, do you?” she blurted out hysterically.
“Oh, no,” answered the doctor gravely; “she has a good chance. Marjorie has always been healthy.”
“It’s her first real sickness since childhood,” supplied Mr. Wilkinson, with an effort towards cheerfulness. “And that ought to help.”