ll, but he did
not care to eat.

"Thank you, child," he said; "I am not hungry. The meals up at that
place are preposterous--nothing short of preposterous. There is no doubt
whatever that far more people die from eating too much than from eating
too little. I wonder the Squire has a scrap of digestion left--heavy
meat breakfasts, heavy meat luncheons, and then a groaning dinner at the
end of the day. Such meals, and practically nothing to do for them!--for
what has a man of that sort to occupy his time beyond what one would
call fiddle-faddle? Well, this tea is refreshing; I will go for a walk
afterward. And now tell me, Effie, have you heard anything about my
patients?"

"Mr. Edwards called this morning, and said they were all doing well,"
said Effie. "The little Beels have got whooping-cough, but I do not
think anyone else is ill. Of course poor Mrs. Watson is much as usual,
but hers is a chronic case."

"Ah, yes, poor soul,"--the doctor gave an apprehensive glance toward his
wife. "I cannot call to see Mrs. Watson for a day or two," he said; "not
that there is the least scrap of infection, for I changed everything
before I came home, but in her state it would not do to make her feel
nervous. Well, wife and daughter, it is good to see you both again; and
now I am going out for a stroll."

The doctor left the room. Effie stood by the table. She was putting back
his empty cup on the tray, and preparing to take the things into the
kitchen, when her mother spoke.

"What is the matter with your father?" she said in a husky voice.

Effie slightly turned her back. "He is just tired," she answered;
"that's all."

"Put down that tray, Effie, and come here," said her mother.

Effie obeyed.

"Yes, mother," she said. "Now, mother darling, you are not going to get
nervous?"

"No, no, I am not nervous," said Mrs. Staunton,--her lips trembled
slightly,--"I am not nervous. Nothing shall make me show nervousness or
weakness of any sort in a time of real extremity. But, Effie, child, I
know something."

"What in the world do you know, mother?" Effie tried to smile.

"Your father is ill. The unimportant people have escaped, but he has
taken this complaint. He is ill, Effie--I know it."

"Now, mother, is that likely?" said Effie. "Father comes home tired, he
has gone through a great deal of anxiety--has he not all his life been
exposed to infection of all kinds? Why should he be ill now? Besides, if
he were ill, he woul