Mrs. Bancroft did not reply, but drew her arm tighter around the babe that lay asleep upon her breast. Her mind wandered over the seven jewels that were to her so precious, and she asked herself which of them she could part with; or if there was an earthly good more to be desired than the love of these dear children.
Mr. Bancroft had very little more to say that evening, but his state of mind did not improve. He was dissatisfied because his income, ten years before, when his expenses were less, was not as good as it was now, and looked ahead with, a troubled feeling at the prospect of a still increasing family, and still increasing expenses, to meet which he could see no possible way. In this unhappy mood he retired at an earlier hour than usual, but could not sleep for a long time—his thoughts were too unquiet. At last, however, he sunk into a deep slumber.
When again conscious, the sun was shining in at the window. His wife had already risen. He got up, dressed himself, and went down stairs. Breakfast was already on the table, and his happy little household assembling. But after all were seated, Mr. Bancroft noticed a vacant place.
"Where is Flora?" he asked.
A shade passed over the brow of his wife.
"Flora has been quite ill all night," she replied; "I was up with her for two or three hours."
"Indeed! what is the matter?"
Mr. Bancroft felt a sudden strange alarm take hold of his heart.
"I can't tell," returned the mother. "She has a high fever, and complains of sore throat."
"Scarlet fever?" ejaculated Mr. Bancroft, pushing aside his untasted cup of coffee and rising from the table. "I must have the doctor here immediately. It is raging all around us."