“Giving it?” Olga echoed. “Why, nothing except her food.”
“What kind of food—milk?”
“Milk, and this.” Olga brought a bottle of the malted food.
“That’s all right. Let me see some of the milk,” the nurse ordered.
She looked at the milk, smelt it, tasted it. “That seems all right too,” she declared. “And you’ve put nothing—no medicine of any sort—in her food?”
“Why, of course not.”
“Do you prepare her food always?”
“Not always. Her mother—my sister—fixes it some times.”
“Ah!” said the nurse.
“What do you mean, Miss Kennan? What is the matter with the baby?”