The narrative seemed to her wildly interesting. How fascinating it would be if she could persuade the girl to relate her story in a drawing-room! It would be the sensation of the winter. But this poor child never could talk in public, even in her own tongue.
"But do tell me," said Mrs. Tate, when Blanche had described the months her father had spent in teaching her to make the great plunge. "Doesn't it hurt your back? I should think that striking with full force day after day on that padded net would destroy the nervous system of a giant."
Blanche smiled and shook her head. "It never used to hurt. I've only felt it lately, since the baby was born," she said.
"Then it does hurt now?" Mrs. Tate cried eagerly.
"Sometimes. I feel so tired in the morning now. I never used to; and sometimes when I wake up my back aches very much. But I try not to think of it."
"But, my dear child, you ought to think of it. You mustn't allow yourself to be injured—perhaps for life."
Blanche turned pale. "Do you think it can be serious?" she asked timidly.
Mrs. Tate saw that she had made a false step. "Of course not—not serious. It's probably nothing at all. I haven't a doubt a physician could stop it easily. Have you spoken to any one about it?"
"No; not even to my husband. I shouldn't like to tell him. It would make him unhappy."
Mrs. Tate became thoughtful. "I wonder if Dr. Broughton couldn't do something for you. He's our physician, and he's the kindest soul in the world. I'm always sending him to people. Suppose I should ask him to come and call on you some day. Perhaps he'll tell you there's nothing the matter, and then you won't be worried any more." She glanced into the pale face and was startled by the look she saw there. "Oh, you needn't be afraid," she laughed. "He won't hurt you. But, of course, if you don't want him to come, I won't send him."