Ursula started up. “Oh, Otto,” she cried, “is it the throat?” Otto nodded. “Then I can go to him,” she said, “now,” and ran from the room.
The white spots were there; she saw them despite the little creature’s struggles, and her heart sank. But she also had a few white spots. There was so much false diphtheria.
The doctor, however, looked grave, and muttered, “Angina pellicularis.” He was angry with Ursula. “I shall stay,” he said, and she cowered down by the little bed.
Then followed an evening of unbroken anxiety. The child grew rapidly worse, and the parents could do nothing but watch its gaspings. Towards midnight the doctor performed the horrible, unavoidable operation which gave it a little more air.
In the lull of suspense Ursula’s gaze fell upon Otto. “And you!” she said, suddenly, “you are ill! You, too! Doctor!”
Otto sank back in responsive collapse.
“It’s no use holding out any longer,” he panted. “Doctor, I’m afraid there’s something wrong with me too.”
“Let me look at your throat,” said the Doctor, harshly. “Here’s a pretty bit of business,” he added, turning to Ursula.
Very shortly after there were two sick-rooms opening out of each other, and the whole household trod softly under the near terror of Death. All through the silent morning Ursula passed from bed to bed, her own pain gone, feeling nothing but the dull agony of useless nursing. Hephzibah had quietly installed herself as an assistant. The child’s usual attendant was too full of personal alarm. Tante Louisa came to the door with persistent whisper. Miss Mopius left a bottle of fluid electricity and ten globules of Sympathetico Lob.