"But you're sick, lovie. And a doctor would make you well. There! There! Listen to Jane, dearie."
Thomas laid an anxious hand on the yellow head. "The doctor won't hurt you," he declared. "He only gives bread-pills, anyhow."
"No-o-o!" She flung herself back upon the bed, catching at the pillows as if to hide beneath them, writhing pitifully, moaning, beseeching with terrified eyes.
Jane and Thomas stared helplessly at each other, their faces guilty and frightened.
"Dearie!" cried Jane; "hush and we won't—Oh, Thomas, I'm fairly distracted!—Pettie, we won't have the doctor."
Gradually Gwendolyn quieted. Then carefully, and by degrees, Jane approached the matter of medical aid in a new way.
"We'll just telephone," she declared, "We wont let any old doctor come here—not a bit of it. We'll ask him to send something. Is that all right. Please, darlin'."
Reluctantly, Gwendolyn yielded. "The medicine'll be awful nasty," she faltered.
To that Jane made no reply. Her every freckle was standing out clearly. Her reddish eyes bulged. She hunted a number in the telephone-directory with fumbling fingers. After which she held the receiver to her ear with a shaking hand. "Everything's goin' wrong," she mourned.
Huddled into a little ball, and still as a frightened bird, Gwendolyn listened to the message.