The day was a long and weary one, and in spite of mamma’s company and of many amusements, Eunice and Cricket were glad to creep back into bed again early in the afternoon. Cricket was much the sicker of the two children, for she had taken a little cold from her unexpected plunge the morning before.
Just before dinner Donald came in, and went directly to his father’s office.
“Father, I feel confoundedly queer,” he said. “I wish you’d give me something. My throat is thick and I can scarcely swallow, and I’ve a splitting headache, and a toothache around my entire jaw. Please patch me up, for I have to go to a society meeting to-night.”
Doctor Ward lay back in his office-chair and looked up at his tall son with a quizzical smile.
“H’m! lumbago in your throat too, eh? Sit down here, old boy, and let me have a look at you.”
Donald sat down, while his father asked him a question or two. Then Doctor Ward burst out laughing. Donald looked injured.
“I presume it is nothing serious then,” he said, with so precisely the same air of dignity that the younger children often assumed when he teased them, that his father laughed harder.
“It’s serious or not, as you take it,” he said. “For my part, I think it’s decidedly serious. My dear fellow, you have the mumps.”
Donald jumped about two feet.
“Mumps!” he ejaculated. “That baby-disease at my age! Great Cæsar’s ghost! how the fellows will guy me!” He dropped down in a chair, with his feet straight out in front of him—a comical picture of despair.