A fear arose to the heart of Mrs. Chattaway. "If we could only get him away to a safe distance!" she exclaimed. "There would be less danger then."
But it could not be; Rupert was too ill to be moved. Mrs. Chattaway was turning to the stairs, when a gentle knocking was heard at the outer door.
It was only Mr. King. Mrs. Chattaway eagerly accosted him with the one anxious question—was Rupert in danger?
"Well I hope not: not in actual danger," was the surgeon's answer. "But—you see—circumstances are against him."
"Yes," she said, hesitatingly, not precisely understanding to what circumstances he alluded. Mr. King resumed.
"Nothing is more essential in these cases of low fever than plenty of fresh air and generous nourishment. The one he cannot get, lying where he does; to obtain the other may be almost as difficult. If these low fevers cannot be checked, they go on very often to—to——"
"To what?" a terrible dread upon her that he meant to say, "to death."
"To typhus," quietly remarked the surgeon.
"Oh, but that is dangerous!" she cried, clasping her hands. "That sometimes goes on to death."
"Yes," said Mr. King; and it struck her that his tone was significant.