"He says Marigold is ill with pneumonia."
"Does he think she is very ill?" anxiously.
"Yes," was the brief response.
"Oh, Pamela!" Miss Holcroft took out her handkerchief, and wiped away a few tears that rolled down her cheeks. "I hope God will spare her to us. Don't you—" hesitating—"don't you think we ought to send for her mother?"
Miss Pamela flushed at the suggestion, and darted a quick look at her sister.
"No!" she replied, "certainly not! There is no necessity yet, at any rate!"
"But if she should not recover—"
Miss Pamela did not wait to hear the conclusion of the sentence, but left the room, and went upstairs to Marigold, who lay with hectic cheeks, and panting breath.
The doctor paid another visit late that night, and shook his head when asked if the patient was not a little better.
The house was hushed, and the servants crept on tiptoe with anxious faces, for Marigold had endeared herself to them all. Miss Pamela elected to sit up through the night, and sent the rest of the household to bed.