"Oh, Davy, you'll kill us!" laments the housekeeper, for the little orguinette is stridulent and loud.
"He'll kill himself," says the cook. "He's not strong enough to grind that hand-organ. He eats nothing at all, at all."
"Papa isn't here any more, but I take my medicine," the child says. The drug is weakening his stomach.
"It is the only way," says Dr. Floddin, "to relieve his lungs."
"Are you sure he is safe?" asks Esther. "Are you sure it was asthma?"
"Oh, yes. Did you not see the white foam? That is asthma."
"You do not come often enough, doctor. I know Mr. Lockwin would be angry if he knew."
"My horse will be well to-morrow and I can call twice. But the child has passed the crisis. You must soon give him air. Let him play a while in the back yard. His lungs must be accustomed to the cold of winter."
"I presume Mr. Lockwin will take us south in December."
"Yes, I guess he'd better."