“Now sing, if you will.”
Josephine tried, but it was altogether another sort of voice which essayed “Old Lang Syne” from that which had warbled it so sweetly earlier in the day; so that she was promptly bidden to give over the attempt, Mr. Smith adding:
“You’re as hoarse as a raven. A few more such rough plays with a parcel of boys and your voice would be ruined. Then your mother would never forgive me. I know enough about music to realize what your singing is to her. Here. Take a book and read. By-and-by it will be dinner time. Maybe the hot soup will soothe your throat.”
He directed her to a bookcase and a vellum-bound copy of “The Pilgrim’s Progress;” observing with fresh pleasure that it was her habit, not an accident of the previous evening, that she handled all books daintily and with respect for them. Then he forgot her in his own Review, and his foot grew easier as the afternoon wore on.
Josephine sat patiently poring over the familiar story, which she could easily read in her own copy at home, but that seemed different in this grand volume; and after a time the words began to mix themselves up in a curious sort of jumble. She closed her eyes the better to clear her vision, didn’t think to open them again, and her head sank down upon the pictured page.
“Huh!” said Mr. Smith, at last laying aside his own magazine, and regarding the sleeper across the table with some amusement. “Old Bunyan’s a trifle heavy for that pretty head. I must hunt up some lighter stuff. Grimm or Andersen, if I’ve such books in the library. If not, I’ll send out after them. How lovely and innocent she looks, and how red her cheeks are. Her whole face is red, even, and— Peter!”
“Yes, Massa Joe. Yes, suh,” answered the butler.
“Doesn’t that child seem a bit feverish? Do you know anything about children, Peter?” asked “Uncle Joe.”
“Mighty little, I’se afraid, suh.”
“Well, sleep can’t hurt anybody. Carry her upstairs and lay her on her bed. Cover her warm, and probably she’ll be all right afterward. She mustn’t get sick. She must not dare to get sick on my hands, Peter!”