"I'm afraid, mamma."
"What are you afraid of? Mamma is here, precious."
His little hands were hot when she clasped them, and the pathetic wonder in his blue eyes made her heart stand still with a fear greater than Harry's. Ever since the children had come she had lived in terror of a serious illness attacking them.
"Where does it hurt you, darling? Can't you tell me?"
"It feels so funny when I swallow, mamma. It's all full of flannel."
"Will you open your mouth wide, then, and let mamma mop your throat with turpentine?"
But Harry hated turpentine even more than he hated the sore throat, and he protested with tears while she found the bottle in the bathroom and swathed the end of the wire mop in cotton. When she brought it to his bedside, he fought so strenuously that she was obliged at last to give up. His fever had excited him, and he sobbed violently while she applied the bandages to his throat and chest.
"Is it any better, dear?" she asked desperately at the end of an hour in which he had lain, weeping and angry, in her arms.
"It feels funny. I don't like it," he sobbed, pushing her from him.
"Then I'll send for Doctor Fraser. He'll make you well."