A DISASTROUS VISIT TO A FROG POND.
But before that day is out Honor finds that there are likely to be
more troubles before her than the want of new boots. For Daisy, who
has been trusted to the care of Dick and Bobby for a long walk in the
fields, comes home with flushed little cheeks, cold feet and hot
hands, and while declining in her quiet, determined way to touch a
morsel of anything to eat, begs, almost with tears in her eyes, for
cup after cup of tea.
"The child looks really ill," says Mrs. Merivale anxiously. "I can't
think what can have made her feverish so suddenly."
"What have you been doing with her?" demands Molly of her two
brothers as she cuts bread with an energy almost terrible to behold.
Bobby mutters something unintelligible about "frogs," his mouth being
full of bread-and-butter at the moment. But at length, after a
cross-examination of both boys, it turns out that Daisy, who is a
lover of anything in the way of an animal from caterpillars upwards,
has been standing for a good half hour and more on the wet, marshy
banks of a large pond, admiring the frogs with which it abounds.
"I suppose the time passed quicker than we thought," Says Dick
apologetically. "It was such fun, you know; for some of them came
quite close to us. I had a job to keep Daisy from going right into
the shallow water after one old fellow, who was sitting up on a kind
of plank."
"He was washing his face," explains Daisy in a husky little voice.
"He wasn't," says Bobby; "he was scratching his ear!"
"I don't believe they've got any ears to scratch," remarks Dick
placidly. "You'd better pile it on, young Bob, and say he was wiping
his eyes with a fine cambric handkerchief."
"You should have been more careful, Dick," puts in Mrs. Merivale.
"You know how susceptible Daisy is to cold; and I'm sure we thought
you might be trusted with her."
The poor boy looks terribly taken down at this mild reproof, for his
devotion to his little sister is great, and there is nothing he would
not do for her sake. He almost gulps, therefore, as he explains
further that he had tried in vain to make the child leave the spot
when once he had remembered how imprudent it was for her to be
standing there in the damp.
At this point there is an unexpected diversion, caused by Daisy
demanding to be put to bed--a most unprecedented request, it being,
as a rule, her one aim and object to keep _out_ of bed as long as
possible.
She is taken off, therefore, by Doris and Honor, having first kissed
Dick, and stroked his cheek with her feverish little hand, saying:
"It wasn't Dick's fault, you know. I wouldn't come away from the
frogs when he wanted me to; so you mustn't scold him, mother, dear."
As the evening wears on the child seems to grow so much worse that
Honor consults her mother as to the advisability of sending for the
doctor; and in a short time Dick is despatched with a little note
begging him to look in as soon as possible. He soon returns, with
the information that the doctor is expected in soon, and that the
note would be given to him at once. The boy has hardly hung up his
cap in the hall when a firm, brisk step is heard on the gravel path
outside, and in another minute (the front door being open) Honor, who
is crossing the hall, finds herself shaking hands with the young
doctor in as friendly a manner as if she had known him all her life.
"I was out at rather an important case," he says, making for the
staircase as a matter of course, "when your brother left the note;
but I believe I caught sight of him just as he was leaving my place.
I was only half-way up that dreadful hill, and not near enough to
call to him, or I might have ridden on at once. My horse was tired
though, and when I found there was no immediate hurry I thought I had
better walk up and see the little patient. Is she in bed, Miss
Merivale?"
"Oh, yes," Honor replies, leading the way upstairs; "and as soon as
we got her into bed she became very feverish. And she is dreadfully
restless, poor child. I hope," stopping abruptly on the landing and
facing the doctor, "I do hope, Dr. Sinclair, there is no scarlet
fever about here. She is so dreadfully flushed, and so thirsty that
Doris--Doris is my eldest sister--and I have been getting quite
nervous."
"Do not alarm yourself on that score," says the doctor reassuringly.
"I can honestly tell you that there has not been a case of scarlet
fever in this healthy village for years. No; your little sister has
always looked to me a delicate child, and to tell you the truth I
have noticed lately that she has certainly become more fragile than
she seemed to be when you first came here. We doctors notice these
things where others would not, perhaps. Now for my little patient,"
and he walks into the room, closely followed by Honor, never noticing
the painful flush which his words have called to the poor girl's face.
"She has certainly become more fragile since you came here!"
Yes; these words fall on Honor's heart like lead, and cause it to
feel as heavy; for has it not been her constant and painful
reflection that ever since they left the old life poor little
delicate Daisy, with the exception of White-star's milk, has had very
little of the nourishing, strengthening food to which she has been
accustomed ever since her birth.
After a brief introduction to Doris, Dr. Sinclair makes a grave and
careful inspection of little Daisy. Presently, with his cool firm
hand resting on the child's forehead, he turns to the girls, and
speaking in a slightly lowered voice he says:
"There is no danger of its being infectious fever of any kind. She
is suffering from a severe form of low fever; a thing that with so
delicate a child is even more difficult to treat sometimes. Her
constitution has completely run down, and she has no strength to
speak of at all. Has she had no appetite? What have you been giving
her to eat?"
Honor flushes again painfully as she answers in a low voice:
"She has had a good deal of milk lately, Dr. Sinclair; and sometimes
a little fowl--and--eggs, of course. And Daisy is fond of
milk-puddings; and--and in fact she has a great many puddings of all
kinds--" and here the poor girl breaks off suddenly, feeling in her
heart that it is not a very extensive list of dainties she has
enumerated.
"But meat," says the doctor, turning smilingly towards Honor; "what
meat has she had? She wants good steaks and chops and strong
beef-tea, jellies and a little good port, and that sort of thing.
Hasn't she cared for meat lately?"
The tears fill Honor's eyes and a lump rises in her throat, but she
swallows it down bravely; and turning a little away from the keen
eyes of the doctor, says sadly:
"My little sister used to have all these things in my father's
lifetime, doctor, but since he--since he died we have not been so
well off, and," with a pitiful little smile, "we have not been able
to afford all these nourishing things which we know dear little Daisy
ought to have."
Honor's face is almost as white now as it was flushed before, for the
effort to speak thus has been great. She turns towards the window,
but before she can reach it the doctor is at her side with
outstretched hands.
"Forgive me," he says simply; "I had forgotten all your trouble.
Please forgive my careless, and what must have seemed to you, my
heartless words."
"Indeed," replies Honor gently, and accepting his proffered hand,
"there is no need of forgiveness. You only spoke the truth, though
it sounded a little cruel at the moment; but it was my fault in being
so silly as to feel it," and she hastily wipes away two obstreperous
tears which have forced their way from beneath her lowered eyelids.
"It was my unfortunately straight way of speaking," resumes the
doctor moving towards the bed again; "speaking right out what I think
without considering the consequences."
"Unfortunate," repeats Honor, raising her eyebrows; "I should call it
a very good way of speaking. I think it must be dreadful to lack the
courage to say what one really thinks."
"Oh, yes, of course," the doctor agrees; "but there are always two
ways of saying a thing, Miss Merivale; and I assure you I often get
myself into hot-water with my bluntness of speech, especially with
touchy old gentlemen whose ideas as to their ailments, either real or
imaginary, do not always agree with mine. Now then, I will tell your
mother what to do for the little patient if you will take me to her,
and I will send round a draught directly I get home."
"Mother will be very pleased to see you, Dr. Sinclair, but please
give me all the necessary directions about Daisy. Doris and I will
have to nurse her, so it will be better."
"Certainly. But is your mother ill, then?"
"No, not _ill_ exactly," replies Honor truthfully; "but she is very
delicate and extremely nervous, and we, my sisters and I, always save
her all the trouble and anxiety that we can. Indeed," she adds
hastily, seeing a slightly incredulous expression pass across the
young man's face, "she would not be strong enough to do _anything_ in
the way of nursing."
"Hum!" mutters the doctor grimly, and following Honor walks down to
the drawing-room, where Mrs. Merivale, with smelling-bottle close at
hand, is reclining on the sofa. It does not take the clear-sighted
doctor long to sum up this lady's character.
"Full of fads and fancies," he thinks to himself as he stands, hat in
hand, answering the questions she puts to him concerning the state of
her little daughter.
So, preferring to make Honor responsible in all matters connected
with the sick-room, he takes his departure as speedily as politeness
will let him, saying as he shakes hands with her that he will look
round early in the morning. By that time poor little Daisy is
considerably worse, the fever having increased greatly during the
night. Dr. Sinclair looks grave, and thinking it better to be open
with his "sensible little friend," as he calls Honor to himself,
tells her plainly that the child will in all probability be seriously
ill.
"Do not alarm yourself unnecessarily as yet," he says kindly to her
and Molly, who with widely opened eyes is scanning his face
anxiously, "she is very young, of course, and although her strength
is at a very low ebb she will very likely pull through it quite
nicely. It is wonderful what children do go through. So we must all
cheer up and hope for the best."