"It is infâme!" said the tutor.—"Cette chère mademoiselle has but arrived: she is weary. Parbleu! she must be hungry. Why not somebody tink of dis?—My dear mees, have you had dinner? Non? J'en etais sûr," with a groan.
Mr. Brown—for that was the tutor's very English name—was so dramatic in the expression of his good feeling that Miss Featherstone could not repress a smile as she turned to the physician, and, taking out her pencil and a little memorandum-book, said, "If you'll give me directions, Doctor Harris, I think that I'm perfectly competent to take care of the child."
Doctor Harris, who was gallant and a bachelor, made a whispered remonstrance referring to her fatigue, but she replied gravely, "I am in perfect health, and it never makes me ill to sit up with a sick person: I have had experience." Some painful remembrance evidently agitated her, for her voice suddenly failed.
They were interrupted by the sound of carriage-wheels rolling rapidly up the avenue.
"Voici madame!" cried Mr. Brown, who flew to the door to hand Mrs.
Pinckney out.
He had taken the earliest opportunity to enlighten her as to the child's illness, for they heard her exclaim, "I know it: oh, I have heard of it! Where is the doctor?"
Mrs. Pinckney was tall and slight: she had blonde hair, large, beautiful eyes—they were blue—and regular features. In short, she was exceedingly pretty: so thought Doctor Harris, and he made many salaams before her.
"Oh, doctor," she exclaimed, rushing up to him and grasping his arm, "is there any danger? Tell me, is there any danger?"
"Not the slightest, ma'am," he replied promptly.
She wouldn't be reassured: "But why not? Convulsions are so serious, they are so terrible! I had a relative who was ruined for life by epilepsy: he was a handsome fellow, but he lost good looks, mind, everything. Oh, Doctor Harris, don't tell me that my poor little Harry is to have epilepsy!" She had the art of puckering her forehead into a thousand wrinkles, yet looking lovely in spite of it.