"I beg your pardon, Miss Wallace," said the doctor, quickly, "it is not you of whom we are afraid, but Mr. Flint is dangerously ill, and has been lying in his study unattended since yesterday; Sam, here, made the discovery to-night. Mrs. Flint is away. I sent for her, but received word that she is sick too, and I can't find any one to take care of him. Has Will gone?"
"Yes; but what is the—what is Mr. Flint's trouble?" Barbara asked, and looked wonderingly at the red lantern.
The doctor knew that Barbara's courage was good, he remembered how fearlessly she had worked during the epidemic of diphtheria, early in the winter, yet he hesitated now before answering her question.
"Why don't you tell me?" said Barbara, impatiently. "What is it?"
"Smallpox," replied the doctor.
It was Barbara's turn to shrink from them.
"And no one to nurse him?" she asked.
"No; and that is what he needs more than anything else," said the doctor.
"There must be some one—are they afraid?"
"Naturally."