Mrs. Early ran to him at once. "What is it, darling?" she cried.
"Let me get to the couch," said George in a low voice; "take my arm."
"Is it your poor head?" asked his wife, anxiously.
George groaned again. "I think it's a fit coming on."
"Oh, let me get the doctor. Aunt, send for the doctor—quick!"
"I don't think the doctor is needed," said Aunt Phœbe, pursing her lips. "If it gets worse we can throw some cold water over him."
"It isn't so bad as that," said George, hastily. "It's—it's my head."
"Poor, poor head!" said Mrs. Early, smoothing his hair.
"The truth's been too much for him," said Aunt Phœbe.
"Aunt, how can you!" cried Mrs. Early, tearfully. "I'm sure George is very, very unwell."