“Far from it,” said the doctor.
“And who’s sick?”
“The poor young mother—very ill indeed,” said he—“nervous, low, and feverish, she has been, and yesterday, when I saw her, it was plainly fever—quite declared.”
“What sort of fever?” asked Harry.
“Well, the nerves are very much engaged,” began the doctor—
“Take care it ain’t typhus,” said Harry. “The baby ha’n’t got it, I hope?”
“No, the child’s all safe.”
“There’s typhus down at Gryce’s mill, and a child in scarlatina in the glen, I hear.”
“Is there? ha! It has been going a good deal at that side, I’m told,” said Dr. Willett. “There’s Lady Wyndale at Oulton—very good-natured she seems to be—wouldn’t she take the child and nurse it for a while? It’s a nice place, well enclosed, and lies high—not likely to get in there. I attended a patient there in dropsy, once, when it was let, and the Wyndales away in India.”
“Ay, she’s good-natured; she’d have the mother and child together, with a welcome, but she says she won’t take no one’s babby to nurse away from its people, and she’s right, I think, so the young chap must stand his ground, and bide the fortune o’ war, you know. What time shall you be there to-day?” he inquired.