"So you said last night, doctor; and just see how much worse he is getting!"
As Dr. Elton was generally a man of few words, he said no more, but wrote a prescription, and went away, promising, however, at the earnest request of Mrs. Marvel, to call again that night.
About nine o'clock he called in, and found Charley's fever in no degree abated. Mrs. Marvel was in tears, and her husband pacing the floor in a state of great uneasiness.
"O doctor, he'll die, I'm sure he'll die!" said Mrs. Marvel, weeping bitterly.
"Don't be alarmed, my dear madam," replied the doctor. "I assure you it is nothing serious."
"Oh, I'm 'sure it's the scarlet fever! It's all about now."
"No, madam, I am in earnest when I tell you it is nothing of the kind. His throat is not in the least sore."
"Yes, doctor, it is sore!"
"How do you know?" responded the doctor, examining Charley's mouth and throat, which showed not the least symptom of any irritation of the mucous membrane. "It can't be sore from any serious cause. Some trifling swelling of the glands is all that can occasion it, if any exist."
Thus assured, and in a positive manner, Mrs. Marvel's alarm in some degree abated, and after ordering a warm bath, the doctor retired.