CHAPTER XXI.

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."