CHAPTER XXII.

DAISY'S ILLNESS.

About an hour after the doctor has gone that morning the garden gate is rather hastily opened, and there is a ring at the door-bell. The Mr. Talboys, in the last stage of anxiety, have arrived to inquire about their little favourite.

"Now, my dear Miss Honor," they both cry, each seizing one of her hands, "is there _nothing_ we can do--either for the poor child or for yourselves, you know? I am quite sure there must be something, if we can only think of it. Calves-foot jelly now, for instance. Mrs. Edwards makes most delicious calves-foot jelly. She shall make some this very day--eh, Brother Ben? Yes, we'll call at the butcher's on our way home and see if they have any calves' feet, and if not, why, they must kill a calf, that's all."

Then the two old gentlemen explain that they had met Dr. Sinclair in the village, and he had told them about poor little Daisy--the first they had heard of it; and so they had come right off to inquire without delay.

"And now," says Mr. Benjamin, taking the initiative for once, "you must remember your promise, Miss Honor, my dear, to let my brother and myself know at once if you can think of anything--no matter what--that we can do for you. Now Priscilla, for instance. Don't you think she would be a help if we sent her over to you for a few hours every day? I don't mean actually for the nursing, but to give assistance in a general sort of way in the house, you know. She is a good-natured, warm-hearted girl, is Priscilla, and I am sure would be glad to turn her hand to anything--eh, Brother Ned?"

"Just so, just so," agrees Mr. Edward, planting his stick firmly on the floor; "a very excellent idea, Brother Ben; but of course it is to be exactly as Miss Honor thinks herself. And now we must not waste her time any more. You will give Daisy the flowers, with our love, and--oh, yes, I remember--the boy will be round by and by with a few little things that we thought might be useful. Good-bye, good-bye!"

And before Honor has a chance of saying a word of thanks off the brothers trot together, waving their hands smilingly to her as they look back from the gate.

It is a long, long time, however, before poor little Daisy can touch any of the tempting and strengthening things which the kind old gentlemen are constantly sending up to the house, for she soon becomes so much worse that a little of White-star's milk, with soda-water, is almost all she lives upon for some time. It is, indeed, an anxious fortnight for all while Daisy--the pet and darling of the household--lies so weak and helpless, and, in the intervals between the attacks of fever, so patiently on her bed of sickness. Her little frame is so wasted, and her weakness so great, that to those watching around her it sometimes seems as if each breath drawn might free the spirit from the little frail body.

Through all this period of sadness and trouble Dr. Sinclair proves himself a most kind and untiring friend. Indeed, before many days are over the good-hearted young fellow is on perfectly familiar terms with the whole family, and besides attending to his patient he looks after each one individually, from Mrs. Merivale, whom he gets gradually to like and pity, down to young Bobby, whom he finds on his arrival one day prostrated with a violent bilious attack, an almost inevitable consequence of his having taken both dinner and tea with the Mr. Talboys on the previous day. At length there comes a day when the doctor looks even graver than usual as he stands by the bed of his little patient, who has become in those weary days of watching almost as dear to him as a little sister might have been. And his affection is warmly returned by Daisy, who looks forward with feverish excitement to his every visit, lying with her great blue eyes--now seeming so much larger in the thin, pale, little face--turning ever towards the door, and gleaming with brightness the moment the step of her "dear old doctor," as she calls him, is heard outside. Once in the room his presence has a singularly soothing influence upon the child; and more than once has the sleepless, weary little body succumbed to the almost magnetic touch of his large, cool hand, when, resting it firmly but gently upon her forehead, he has stood and watched the heavy eyelids droop and droop, until, if only for a few minutes, his little patient sleeps.

Dr. Sinclair says very little as he makes his examination on this particular morning. But as Honor follows him downstairs he turns into the empty sitting-room, and taking up his hat and stick from the table suddenly faces her.

"Can you bear to hear the truth?" he asks abruptly.

Honor feels her heart tighten at these ominous words, but she meets the doctor's keen inquiring gaze unflinchingly, and answers bravely:

"I would far rather know the worst than be kept in suspense."

Then the young man gently and pityingly tells her that the next four-and-twenty hours will decide whether little Daisy will live or die, and that almost everything will depend on the care and attention she receives during that time.

"Do not be afraid for me," she says a little brokenly. "I am not one to give way, you know; and I am quite strong, and perfectly able to sit up for many more nights yet. When will you send the draught?"

"I shall not send it at all," he answers briefly. "I would far rather that this exhaustion should end, as I still hope it may, in a healthy and natural sleep. But sleep the child _must have_ somehow; so I shall look in about five, and, with your permission, Miss Honor, I shall remain during the night to help watch my little patient."

"Oh, how good of you!" exclaims the girl. "It will be such a relief to feel that I am not responsible, as it were; not that I am afraid--please, don't think that."

Having thus arranged, the young man hurries off to get in all the work he can before returning to the Rookery. He has not got far on his road, however, when suddenly turning a corner he runs straight against the brothers Talboys, who are hurrying from the opposite direction. Before the doctor can open his mouth to speak, one has seized the lapel of his coat and the other his arm, and simultaneously they pant out the same question:

"How is she? How have you left her? My dear Dr. John, we have been so anxious, and we have been watching for you this hour or more; we felt we couldn't trouble the family by calling to inquire this morning." And Mr. Ned, who, it is needless to say, has quickly out-distanced his brother in speaking, shakes the doctor's arm roughly in his anxiety.

"I left the poor child in a very critical state, sir," he replies, trying to conceal his impatience at being detained thus unexpectedly; "but I am returning there at the end of the afternoon, and should there be any change, either for better or worse, I will try and send you up a message."

"Not for the worse, Dr. John?" repeats Mr. Ben, while both the kind old faces express much emotion. "You don't look for a change for the worse, do you?"

"No, no, my dear sirs; God forbid that I should look for it. But as yet I cannot tell, though to-night must decide the case one way or the other. We will pull her through yet, Mr. Talboys, if it be God's will; and if not--"

A lump rises in the young man's throat which prevents his finishing his sentence, and shaking off Mr. Ben's detaining hand as gently as he can, he tries to make his escape. But Mr. Ned hurries after him, and once more seizing his hand cries, with tears in his eyes:

"Save her, Dr. John! only save the child, and my Brother Ben and I shall owe you a debt of gratitude that we can never sufficiently repay."