VI.
“Just look here a minute, Max; is it my fancy, or does Jan look a little pale to-day?” asked Mrs Van Elst one morning, as she went out to the verandah to see her husband off.
“Of course it is your fancy,” said Max, who made a point of never allowing that any of the children were ill,—a device intended to calm their nervous mother, but which always had precisely the contrary effect “Come here a moment, Njo; your mother says you’re not well. Come, my boy, tell me what’s the matter with you,” he added less carelessly, as Jan, usually anything but slow to respond to his father’s call, dragged himself listlessly towards them, and sank down upon a chair.
“Not comf’ble, papa—headache!” was all he vouchsafed.
Max took him on his knee, and glanced at his wife. Yes, the old story; she was pale, her lips trembled, and her eyes were bent tenderly and anxiously on the child. It was this readiness to take alarm which caused Jo more suffering than the patient, whenever her husband or children were ailing.
“Shall we just send for the doctor, dear?”
“No; did I ever!” cried Max. “The man would think we were mad. Because Njo has a little headache, forsooth! Come, my boy, go and play.”
“Play! Good gracious! Max, just feel how hot his head is.”
“Well, put him to bed then. You can do that at least,” and he laughed, as it seemed to her, heartlessly, and called her “a silly thing”—a jocular remark which was met by none of Jo’s usual repartees.
“Papa must come too,” was Jan’s command, and we know that no general is better obeyed by his soldiers than a sick child by its parents. So Max carried his boy first over one shoulder, then over the other, after which he had to creep on all fours round the room, roaring like a lion, before Njo would be laid down. The patient was not particularly disposed to go to sleep; he allowed papa to coddle him, and mamma to bring him lemonade, and did as many children do when much notice is taken of their ailments—made himself out much worse than he really was.