“Friend,—Your wife is feverish. Your cousin has a dread of infection. Is there any danger of typhus?—Yours,
“Smits.”
With a heartier laugh than he had indulged in for a long time, Van Elst sprang to his feet. “The very thing! What a capital idea!” He would take steps at once.
“How is Cousin Jo?” asked Emily half-an-hour later at the breakfast-table.
“No better,” said Max gravely; “I would not go near her if I were you, Cousin Emily; I think she’s asleep.”
The doctor came, and pronounced the patient convalescent; so he sat chatting sociably with her for some time, and then left her, prescribing a tonic.
Scarcely was he gone when Max joined his cousins in the front verandah.
“What a long time the doctor stayed,” Emily remarked. “It’s nothing serious, is it?”
Van Elst preserved an ominous silence.
“Cousin Jo will soon be going about again, I hope?” asked Martendijk, with some concern; for domestic affairs had not gone so smoothly, nor had they, personally, fared so well, since Mrs Van Elst had been laid up.