The father’s face blanched. A word was enough in his overwrought condition.
“Porter must see her,” he said; “and I have just let him leave me. I’ll send some one after him.”
“My dear George, it is nothing; only one of her usual headaches.”
“You are sure she was not feverish?”
“I think not. It never occurred to me. She has often complained of headache since she began to grow so fast.”
“Yes, she has shot up like a tall white lily—my lily!” murmured the father tenderly.
He sank into a chair, feeling helpless, hopeless almost, under that overpowering sense of fatality—of undeserved evil.
“Dear George, you look so ill this afternoon,” said his wife, with tender anxiety, laying her hand on his shoulder, and looking earnestly at him, as he sat there in a downcast attitude, his arms hanging loosely, his eyes bent upon the ground. “I’m afraid the heat has overcome you.”
“Yes, it has been very hot. Do me a favour, Mildred. Go into the house, and send somebody to find Porter. He was going the round of the cottages where there are sick people. He can easily be found. I want him to see Lola, at once.”
“I’ll send after him, George; but, indeed, I don’t see any need for a doctor. Lola is so strong; her headaches pass like summer clouds. O George, you don’t think that she is going to have fever, like the cottagers!” cried Mildred, full of a sudden terror.