"Thank you, child," he said; "I am not hungry. The meals up at that place are preposterous—nothing short of preposterous. There is no doubt whatever that far more people die from eating too much than from eating too little. I wonder the Squire has a scrap of digestion left—heavy meat breakfasts, heavy meat luncheons, and then a groaning dinner at the end of the day. Such meals, and practically nothing to do for them!—for what has a man of that sort to occupy his time beyond what one would call fiddle-faddle? Well, this tea is refreshing; I will go for a walk afterward. And now tell me, Effie, have you heard anything about my patients?"
"Mr. Edwards called this morning, and said they were all doing well," said Effie. "The little Beels have got whooping-cough, but I do not think anyone else is ill. Of course poor Mrs. Watson is much as usual, but hers is a chronic case."
"Ah, yes, poor soul,"—the doctor gave an apprehensive glance toward his wife. "I cannot call to see Mrs. Watson for a day or two," he said; "not that there is the least scrap of infection, for I changed everything before I came home, but in her state it would not do to make her feel nervous. Well, wife and daughter, it is good to see you both again; and now I am going out for a stroll."
The doctor left the room. Effie stood by the table. She was putting back his empty cup on the tray, and preparing to take the things into the kitchen, when her mother spoke.
"What is the matter with your father?" she said in a husky voice.
Effie slightly turned her back. "He is just tired," she answered; "that's all."
"Put down that tray, Effie, and come here," said her mother.
Effie obeyed.
"Yes, mother," she said. "Now, mother darling, you are not going to get nervous?"
"No, no, I am not nervous," said Mrs. Staunton,—her lips trembled slightly,—"I am not nervous. Nothing shall make me show nervousness or weakness of any sort in a time of real extremity. But, Effie, child, I know something."