Her eyes filled slowly with tears.
"Is his health to be won back at such a price?" she asked—she turned once again to the sick child's bed.
"God grant not," said the doctor—"rest satisfied that what man can do to save him I will do."
"I know that," she replied.
In an hour's time the specialist arrived and the two doctors had their consultation. Certain remedies were prescribed, and Dr. Rumsey hurried away promising to send in two trained nurses immediately. He came back again himself at noon to find the boy, as he expected, much worse. The child was now delirious. All during that long dreadful day the fever rose and rose. The whole aspect of the house in Seymour Street was altered. There were hushed steps, anxious faces, whispered consultations. As the hours flew by the prognostications of the medical men became graver and graver. Margaret gave up hope as the evening approached. She knew that the little life could not long stand the strain of that all-consuming fever. Awdrey alone was full of bustle, excitement, and confidence.
"The child will and must recover," he said to his wife several times. When the night began Dr. Rumsey resolved not to leave the child.
"A man like Rumsey must save him," cried the father. He forgot all about his own nervous symptoms—he refused even to listen to his wife's words of anxiety.
"Pooh!" he said, "when children are ill they are always very bad. I was at death's door once or twice myself as a child. Children are bad one moment and almost themselves the next. Is not that so, doctor?"
"In some cases," replied the doctor.
"Well, in this case? You think the boy will be all right in the morning—come now, your honest opinion."