“Maybe he’s caught cold. Better have him keep quiet to-day,” suggests father. “I’ll do his chores this morning.”
You really begin to feel ill, the word “fever” has such a portentous sound. And you thereby submit the easier to being stowed upon the sofa against the wall, your head upon a pillow and the ready afghan over your feet and legs.
“There’s so much measles about now; don’t you think we ought to have Dr. Reese come in and look at him?” remarks mother to father, in that impersonal mode of conversation, like an aside, which seems to presuppose that you have no ears.
“N-n-no,” decides father. “I’d wait and see if he doesn’t feel better soon.”
In his eye there is a twinkle, at which mother’s face clears, and they exchange glances which you do not comprehend.
The first bell rings. The chattering boys and girls on their way to school pass the house. But no school for you, you bet! And the last bell rings. As you hark to some belated, luckless being scampering madly by, you hug yourself. Let the blamed old bell bang; you don’t care!
The summons dies away in a jarring clang. Here you are, safe.
You remain prone as long as you can, but your sofa-station at last grows unbearably irksome. It is time that you pave the way for more action. Mother is bustling in and out of the room, and you are emboldened to hail her:
“I want to get up.”
“Not yet,” she cautions. “Lie quiet and try to go to sleep.”