“She’s very highly strung, doctor,” said Mrs. Cowell.
“Well,” said the doctor, in a manner of getting down to business, “sometimes we discover a condition that may have existed for a long time. We ought to be glad of the occasion which brings such a thing to light. Now we know what to do—or what not to do. He hasn’t been sick lately? Diphtheria or——”
“Yes, he had diphtheria,” said Mrs. Cowell surprised; “he hasn’t been well a month.”
“Ah,” said the doctor with almost a relish in his voice. “That’s what causes the mischief; he’ll be all right. It isn’t a chronic weakness. Diphtheria is apt to leave the heart in bad shape—it passes. Didn’t they tell you about that? That’s the treacherous character of diphtheria; you get well, then some day after a week or two you fall down. It’s an after effect that has to work off.”
“It isn’t serious then, doctor?” Wilfred’s mother asked anxiously.
“Not unless he makes it so. He must favor himself for a while.”
“How long?” the boy asked wistfully.
“Well, to be on the safe side I should say a month.”
“A month from to-day?” the wistful voice asked.
“You mustn’t pin the doctor down, dearie,” said Mrs. Cowell; “he means a month or two—or maybe six months.”