“I suppose so—only I don’t think I should have been silly enough to go out in that storm without a good reason.”
“But it wasn’t Ernest’s fault it stormed,” Jane replied plaintively.
“Ernest’s fault? Why, what do you mean?” Marian looked at the child in astonishment.
Jane’s face was very sober.
“I just guess he couldn’t help if it you got all cold and——”
“Of course not, Jane, what put such an idea into your head! I should have had more sense than to venture out in such a storm. Does Ernest—is that why he brings me all those things and hangs round so?—the poor boy? Dear me, this will never do.”
“He wouldn’t like it if he knew I told you,” said Chicken Little ruefully.
“You haven’t told me, dear. I guessed it, but I’ll find a way to stop his worrying.”
April came and went and Marian was still pale and weak. Dr. Morton looked grave and finally suggested to Frank that they should have the famous Dr. Brownleigh of Chicago down to examine Marian’s lungs. Frank went white at the suggestion, but quietly acquiesced. Two days later the great doctor arrived.
Chicken Little knew there was some excitement afoot that morning when she went to school. Both Dr. and Mrs. Morton looked sad and Mrs. Morton sighed frequently. Ernest pushed most of his breakfast away untasted.