“I am glad it is you, Harold, for we want you badly, as soon as you can come to us. Ned is, I fear, very ill; has a high fever and is quite delirious.”
“I will come at once,” returned Harold. “Poor, dear little chap! His uncle loves him too well to let him suffer a moment’s illness that he may possibly be able to relieve.”
As Harold turned from the instrument his mother’s bedroom door opened and she stood there arrayed in a dressing-gown thrown hastily over her night-dress.
“What is it, Harold, my son?” she asked. “I heard the telephone. Are any of our dear ones taken sick?”
“Don’t be troubled, mother dear,” he returned in tenderly respectful tones. “It was only a call from Woodburn to say that little Ned is not well and they would like me to come and do what I can for him.”
“And you are going?”
“Yes, mother, with all haste.”
“I should like to go with you, to do what I can for the child and to comfort poor Vi.”
“Oh, don’t, mother! Please go back to your bed, take all the rest and sleep that you can and go to them to-morrow. That is your eldest doctor son’s prescription for you. Won’t you take it?” putting an arm about her and kissing her tenderly.
“Yes,” she said, returning the caress with a rather sad sort of smile, “for I think he is a good doctor, as well as one of the best of sons.” And with that she went back to her bed, while he hurried away to his patient.