"Well—what's the matter, sir?" was Mattie's question.
"Humph! don't know that I can tell exactly, yet. I'll look in to-morrow."
"No, don't do that," said Mattie, alarmed at the expense.
"Yes, do," cried Ann Packet, "your money's safe, sir. Look to me at 34 Chesterfield Terrace, Camberwell, for it. I'm a respectable maid-of-all-work, with money in the bank."
"It's of no consequence," muttered the doctor; but he entered the address in his note-book, like a man of business as he was.
"Shan't I be well to-morrow, sir?" asked Mattie, anxiously.
"Humph!—scarcely to-morrow, I think."
"Why don't you say what it is?—do you think I'm likely to be frightened at it, even if it's death, sir? Why, I've lived down all fright at anything long ago."
"It's a little attack of scarlatina, I think," he answered, thus adjured.
"You only think?"