Bethany trotted into the house and went into the dining room. The Judge was just entering it, and presently the servants filed in for prayers.
After prayers came breakfast, and then as the Judge and Bethany sat at the table Titus entered with a slow step and a rueful face.
“Dallas is ill, grandfather,” he said, slowly.
The Judge looked up. “What is the matter with him?”
“I don’t know, sir,” said Titus, in a peculiar manner. “His face is red, and he keeps his head under the bedclothes.”
“He was quite well last evening,” said the Judge, and his mind ran back to the night before, when, to his great relief, the English boy had been cheerful and entertaining, instead of moping, as he had feared he would do when he was informed that he must go back to New York.
“Yes, sir,” said Titus, “he played those games fast enough.”
“Perhaps he has taken cold,” said the Judge; “I will go up and see,” and, throwing his napkin on the table, he went slowly upstairs.
Dallas was red and feverish, and his eyes were bright.
“Have you a headache?” asked the Judge.