"Oh, I hope I didn't hurt you?" he asked, stroking the frightened child's shoulder. "The trip will do that pale girl good. Be sure to give her lots and lots of milk there. There is nothing like milk for such a frail little girl."
"We have decided to leave Dora at home, doctor," remarked Aunt Ninette.
"That is your affair, of course, Mrs. Ehrenreich! Only look out or her health will give you more worry than your husband's. May I leave now?"
The next moment he was gone.
"Oh, doctor, doctor! What do you mean? How did you mean that?" Aunt Ninette cried loudly, following him down the stairs.
"I mean," called the doctor back, "that the little thing is dreadfully anaemic and she can't live long, if she doesn't get new blood."
"Oh, my heavens! Must every misfortune break in upon us?" exclaimed Aunt Ninette, desperately wringing her hands. Then she returned to her husband. "Please, dear Titus, put your pen away for just a second. You didn't hear the dreadful thing the doctor prophesied, if Dora doesn't get more color in her cheeks."
"Take her along, she makes no noise," decided Uncle Titus, writing all the while.
"But, dear Titus, how can you make such decisions in half a second. Yes, I know she doesn't make any noise, and that is the most important thing. But so many matters have to be weighed and decided—and—and—" but Aunt Ninette became conscious that further words were fruitless. Her husband was once more absorbed in his work. In her room, she carefully thought everything over, and after weighing every point at least three times, she came to the conclusion to follow the doctor's advice and take Dora with her.
A few days later, the old uncle's brief answer arrived from Hamburg. He knew of no connections his brother had kept up with people in Switzerland, for it was at least thirty years since he had lived there. The name of the small village where he had stayed was Tannenberg, and he was certain it was a quiet, out of the way place, as he remembered his brother complaining of the lack of company there. That was all.