"I did kiss that pretty lady."
"He means a lady whom he met in the Park; a Miss Harman, who came here and brought him toys," explained Mrs. Home.
"Yes, isn't she a pretty lady?" repeated little Harold.
"Very pretty," answered Hinton, bending low over him.
The child smiled. It was a link between them. He again stole his hand into that of the young man. But as days wore on and the fever did not abate, the little life in that small frame began to grow feeble. From being an impossibility, it grew to be probable, then almost certain, that the little lad must die. Neither father nor mother seemed alive to the coming danger; but Hinton, loving less than they did, was not blinded. He had seen scarlet fever before, he knew something of its treatment; he doubted the proper course having ever been pursued here. One evening he followed the doctor from the sick-room.
"The child is very ill," he said.
"The child is so ill," answered the medical man, "that humanly speaking there is very little hope of his life."
"Good sir!" exclaimed Hinton, shocked at his fears being put into such plain language. "Don't you see that those parents' lives are bound up in the child's, and they know nothing? Why have you told them nothing? Only to-night his mother thought him better."
"The fever is nearly over, and in consequence the real danger beginning; but I dare not tell the mother, she would break down. The father is of different stuff, he would bear it. But there is time enough for the mother to know when all is over."
"I call that cruel. Why don't you get in other advice?"