Mr. Linden was silent at first, looking down at the child with a sort of expression the doctor had not often seen, and when he spoke it was without raising his eyes.
"Tell me more particularly."
"I don't know myself,"—said the doctor with a frankness startling in one of his profession; but Dr. Harrison's characteristic carelessness nowhere made itself more apparent than in his words and about what people might think of them.—"I don't say anything certainly—but I do not like appearances."
"What is the matter?"
"It's an indefinite sort of attack—all the worse for that!—the root of which is hid from me. All you can do is to watch and wait. Have you been here through the night?"
"Yes," Mr. Linden answered—and put the further question, "Do you think there is any danger of contagion?"
"O no!—the fever, what there is, comes from some inward cause—a complicated one, I judge. I can guess, and that's all. Are there no women about the house?"
"None that are good for much." And looking at his watch, Mr. Linden laid the child—who had fallen asleep again—out of his arms among the pillows, arranging them softly and dextrously as if he were used to the business.
"Reuben Taylor will stay with him for the present," he said as he turned to Dr. Harrison.
"I'll come again by and by," the doctor said. "Meanwhile all that can be done is to let him have this, as I told you."