“It was, maybe, a cold to begin with,” said Beenie cautiously, but then she melted into tears and cried: “She’s awfu’ fevered, she’s the color o’ fire, and kens nothing,” in a lamentable voice.
“Bless me,” cried Sir Robert, “is there any fever about?”
“There’s nae fever about that I ken of—there’s nae folk hereby to get a fever,” Beenie said.
“Then I’ll go and see her myself!” cried Sir Robert, rising from his chair.
“Eh, Sir Robert!” cried Katrin, from behind the door, “you a gentleman that could do the puir thing no good! It’s better to leave her to us women folk.”
“There is truth in that, too,” Sir Robert said. He took a turn about the room and then sat down again in his chair, his forehead contracted with a line of annoyance and perplexity which might have been called anxiety by a charitable onlooker. Beenie had seized the opportunity of Katrin’s appearance to hurry away, and he found himself face to face with his housekeeper. He gave a long breath of relief. “It’s you, Katrin,” he said; “you’re a sensible person according to your lights. There’s fever with all things—a wound (but that’s of course impossible for her), or a cold, or any accident. What’s your opinion? Is it a thing that will pass away?”
“Leave her with Beenie and me for another day, Sir Robert, and the morn, if she’s no better, I’ll be the first to ask for a doctor; and eh, I hope it’s safe no to have him the day.” The latter part of this speech Katrin said to herself under cover of the door.
“She’ll have got cold coming home late from one of her parties,” said the old gentleman, regaining his composure.
“Her pairties, Sir Robert!” said Katrin, almost with a shriek. “And where, poor thing, would she get pairties here?”
“She has friends, I suppose?” he said with a little impatience, “companions of her own age. Where will young creatures like that not find parties? is what I would ask.”