“Pardon me, do you think your mother-judgment was wise then?”
“Well, really, Dr. Strong,” said Mrs. Clyde, flushing, “you will hardly assume the right of control of the children’s manners—”
“This is not a question of manners. There is where your error lies,” interrupted the doctor. “Against your mother-judgment I set my doctor-judgment, and I tell you now”—his voice rose a little from its accustomed polished smoothness, and took on authority—“I tell you that the boy is no more responsible for his clumsiness than Betty is for bad breathing. It’s a disease, very faint but unmistakable.”
“Not Charley!” said his father incredulously, “Why, he’s as husky as a colt.”
“He will be, please God, in a few years, but just now he has—don’t be alarmed; it’s nothing like so important as it sounds—he has a slight heart trouble, probably the sequel to that light and perhaps mismanaged diphtheria attack. It’s quite a common result and is nearly always outgrown, and it shows in almost unnoticeable lack of control of hands and feet. I observed Charley’s clumsiness long ago; listened at his heart, and heard the murmur there.”
“And you never told us!” reproached the grandmother.
“What was the use? There’s nothing to be done; nothing that needs to be done, except watch, and that I’ve been doing. And I didn’t want to worry you.”
“Then I’ve been punishing him for what wasn’t his fault,” said Mrs. Clyde in a choked voice.
“You have. Don’t punish Betty for what isn’t hers,” countered the physician, swiftly taking advantage of the opening. “Give her her chance. Mrs. Clyde, if Betty were my own, she could hardly have wound herself more closely around my heartstrings. I want to see her grow from a strong and beautiful child to a strong and beautiful girl, and finally to a strong and beautiful woman. It rests with you. Watch her breathing to-night, as she sleeps—and tell me to-morrow.”
He rose and left the room. Mr. Clyde walked over and put a hand softly on his wife’s soft hair; then brushed her cheek with his lips.