“Is it the fever?” impatiently asked Sarah Anne, unclosing her hot eyelids.
“If it is, we must drive it away again,” said the doctor cheerily.
“Why should the fever have come to me?” she rejoined, her tone rebellious.
“Why was I thrown from my horse last year, and broke my arm?” returned Mr. Snow. “These things come to all of us.”
“To break an arm is nothing—people always recover from that,” irritably answered Sarah Anne.
“And you will recover from the fever, if you will be quiet and reasonable.”
“I am so hot! My head is so heavy!”
Mr. Snow, who had called for water and a glass, was mixing a white powder which he had produced from his pocket. She took it without opposition, and then he lessened the weight of bed-clothes, and afterwards turned his attention to the chamber. It was close and hot; the sun, which had just burst forth brightly from the grey skies, shone full upon it.
“You have that chimney stuffed up!” he exclaimed.
“Sarah Anne will not allow it to be open,” said Lady Sarah. “She is sensitive to cold, dear child, and feels the slightest draught.”